


First Rule: Fight Me

by SpecialSmiley1315



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- fight club, Blood and Injury, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Fight Club AU, Friendship, Gang War, Gen, Kinda, Love, M/M, Military, Rivalry, Underground Fighting Ring, Violence, feels in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecialSmiley1315/pseuds/SpecialSmiley1315
Summary: People ride amusement rides for thrills. They watch a scary movie to get the adrenaline pumping. Some, however, fight because fighting reminds you of more. It doesn't just remind you that you're alive. No, it reminds you that you don't want to die.The members of the Voltron crew each have their reasons for fighting at the Castle of Lions. But despite that difference, one thing brings them together -- the fact that they were born to wear blood on their teeth and pain on their skin.





	1. The Castle of Lions

**Author's Note:**

> Voltron + Underground fighting = happiness.

Castle of Lions gym has been home to the neighborhood for generations. The blue and white sign hanging on the brick building worn from the elements, a few lights dead and never replaced. It sticks out like police cruisers in an upscale town.

In this city, graffiti paint every corner with gang tags. Sidewalks are stained with old gum and trash. Exhaust fills the lungs of the citizens and people walk with their heads down low, avoiding the fight that comes when eyes lock with the groups that loiter, who seek a good throwdown. It’s a place built on survival of the fittest. A hell hole of bloodied knuckles and bloodier teeth and respect garnered by being the last one standing.

On the outside looking in, the gym doesn’t belong. Not with the clean glass doors and well-kept front. It’s unspoken throughout the city, but word says that the Castle should never be touched. Some brave souls have tried, painting their mark in bold colors on the old brick and those impeccable doors. The next day, the evidence no longer exists, and no one tries again for months to come when another young mind wants to prove something.

The owner, a ghost that few have met face to face, spends all of his time locked away in his fortress. A tall man with fiery red hair and a mustache that would make any man jealous, Coran only leaves for the basic human necessities. Those who have spoken to him relay that the man has a heart of gold. An older gentleman with crow’s feet around his stark blue eyes and lines of age-worn deep into his skin, he gives back to the community with open gym days for anyone to come in and get a free lesson in self-defense.

Yet, the dark alleys of the city speak differently of the man of the Castle. Few enter those clean doors from the front, and fewer know Coran’s true day job. Truth is, the gym acts as a cover. Enter through the back door, take the stairs at the door on the right and a whole new world awaits. One that reeks of mildew walls, old sweat, and iron.

Late during the night, bodies pile into the space, shoulder to shoulder shouting over each other. Green paper is passed to the red-headed man, Coran quirking his mustache mouth up in a sly grin when his pockets bulge at the end of a night.

Customers push and shove, stretching to see the center of the room that draws in cash.

Two people only, that’s the rule. No weapons. Some fists get wrapped in gauze, others stay bare as evidence of the pain they inflict. Fight until the fighter calls for a stop, taps out, or goes limp. This is the home to the city’s way of problem-solving.

The Castle of Lions houses one of many illegal street fighting rings. There are others, but none like Coran’s. Here, the fights are clean -- enforced by the crew of men Coran keeps around. Defy the Unilu and reap the consequences.

Many people dream of the terrors the crew has brought down on those who don’t cooperate, horrors that wake them in cold sweats. They maintain Coran’s rules, keep the peace, and ensure a good night of fighting. Nobody gets shorted the money they’re due after a win either. It’s strictly a place to garner respect or settle an issue. Whatever people need it to be, the Castle of Lions gives them a place to rectify it.

Other fighting rings are not the same. Fights are rigged, money stolen. People get hurt, end up in the hospital from a knife being tossed into the fray. It’s a battle for blood, not for concessions.

So, only a few people know of Coran’s late-night business. The less who know, the easier to maintain the rules. Makes it easier to give people what they need because, yes what Coran does is illegal, but he always believed fighting was a sport of honor and respect. Giving these troubled people an outlet to sort through their issues and earn something from it, that’s all that matters to the man of the Castle.

The front doors to the Castle of Lions lock at nine, and Coran helps his crew prep for the night. Gym mats are dragged down into the basement to protect the fighters from the unforgiving cement floor, preventing any dirty moves like slamming someone’s head against it. Wooden stairs creak with age but remain sturdy on the decline to the basement. In the beginning, it was a place of storage with old equipment lurking in dark corners and unpacked boxes. Now, with dim lighting due to lack of electrical wiring, the space is wide open.

He doesn’t count how many people cram in at night, more than building codes would allow. Over the years, the ring has expanded, the invite spreading to more individuals. Coran enjoys seeing fresh faces eager to get a taste of the ring. Some impress him while others bring a smirk to his face, remembering days of naivety and the power of invincibility.

Coran sets up the whiteboard by the stairs for everybody to see when they come in. Fighters write their names in one column and wait for a competitor to challenge them, writing their name directly across in the other column. Once someone wins, the money placed on the game gets rewarded to the winner. The loser gets their name erased and nothing except another chance to battle whoever they want.

Time ticks by, seconds rolling into minutes and then hours until midnight strikes. His crew takes their positions -- Travis manning the door, Cassandra preparing the betting table, Anjay cracking their knuckles with a wild gleam in their eye, ready to fight anyone who won’t cooperate at the entrance, and Griffin lazing against the staircase with a bored yawn. Coran settles beside Griffin, no words spoken as they wait for the first customers to show.

Travis will collect the door fee and monitor who comes in and out. Anjay will be next to him, patting everyone down for weapons and ensuring the rules are known to those who enter. Later, when things die down, Anjay will make their way down to the basement to prowl the crowd for any problematic people. Griffin and Coran will do the same, monitoring the fights and the betting tables.

When these nights occur are random. The Unilu spread the invite at Coran’s order, going to their usual attendees and leaving the rest up to them.

 It’s word of mouth, trust that those who come will play by the rules. If not, then they learn really quick that there’s a zero-tolerance policy. Coran listens to the gossip that plagues the streets, eavesdrops on the conversations during his classes and here at the fights. Based on that, the needs of the troubled, he plans accordingly.

Five after midnight, the first of the crowd appears. Within minutes the place fills up, gathering around the room, but ensuring that a large circle at the center stays open. No lines mark where it should be. It’s created by the people, an unconscious thought when they gather.

Coran plays with the edges of his mustache, sharp eyes scouring those gathered while he maintains his place by the stairs. Fighters have already marked their names in black marker on the board, Cassandra raking in the money for the few fights picked. After the board is filled, the first rounds begin.

Regulars catch the red-headed man’s eye, giving curt nods to those he makes eye contact with. They nod back, sticking with their crews, ready for a night of flying fists.

“Coran, Coran, the gorgeous man.” Sings a voice from above.

The stairs creak and Coran smiles in a warm welcome at the tanned faced man that stands before him. Shorter than himself, the man stands taller than most of his peers. Rugged, dark hair with sharp cheekbones and flawless skin give him a youthful look.

“Lance, nice to see you,” he greets, extending a hand. Lance takes it, clasping tight as they pull each other into a tight embrace and clap each other on the back.

“How’s the crowd tonight? Ready for a little razzle dazzle?” Lance asks, flexing his lean arms.

Unlike many of the fighters Coran sees, Lance is not as large. He has height and long limbs, but he’s not hulking like some. Which he uses as an advantage. Many fighters underestimate his wiry build, forgetting that not all strength is obvious. The man has power and uses his quick tongue to rile his opponent up and lose focus.

Grinning, Coran assures the young man. “I’m certain the crowd will enjoy watching you fight. They always do.”

Lance glows with the compliment.

“Don’t inflate his ego any more than it already is, Coran.”

A squawk of indignation escapes Lance as he faces his friend, another familiar face. “Hunk!”

“Sorry, buddy,” he faux apologizes, lips curled in a teasing grin.

Lance huffs, crossing his arms as he sticks his nose up in the air. Hunk, taller and larger in build than his friend, wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in tight against his side.

“I'll cheer the loudest when you win tonight.”

With that, Lance’s pout turns into a cocky smirk, puffing his chest out. “Of course you will because I'm the best.”

“Says who?” The two turn, a scowl returning to Lance’s features.

“Shut up, mullet. You're just jealous.”

Keith rolls his eyes, muttering a quick “whatever.” Behind him, Coran spots the other member of the ragtag group, Pidge, placing her bets as she scribbles her name on the whiteboard.

Lance and Keith continue to squabble, tossing insults back and forth. Coran watches with amusement as Pidge joins in, adding her own jabs against the two.

“Is Shiro still out?”

His question silences the four in a heartbeat. Their shoulders rise with tension, eyes seeking one another in a silent conversation. Keith releases a long breath, his jet-black hair, that does resemble a mullet, hanging into his eyes.

“He’s still...recovering,” the man hesitating on the word.

Coran nods, twirling his mustache in thought. Months have passed since he last saw the leader of this crew. The months edging closer to a whole year.

Shiro, also known as “champion” in the ring, was a regular before the other four started coming. His reputation was spoken with awe. Many feared going up against him because they knew it was a loss. However, there were times when he would disappear, dropping off the radar.

Nobody talks about their real lives. People run into each other on the street. Big city, but small world and encounters happen. However, nobody acknowledges day jobs or problems. This place was not designed for that. Shiro disappearing for months on end wasn't anybody's business. When he showed again, painting his knuckles in pain, that's all people cared about.

Coran doesn't know the details of this “recovery.” When he questioned the small crew of the man’s disappearance all he got in return was a dull “something happened” and “he’ll be back when he’s better.”

Having the Unilu as his eyes and ears of this city, Coran holds all the secrets of his customers. So, he's certain that Shiro didn't have a hit put on him. Whatever misfortune came upon the Champion, it is not something even these city streets are privy to.

The red-headed man drops the conversation turning to the shortest member of the four-man crew.

Pidge, the only girl of the all-male group, stands with her arms crossed and hazel eyes calculating while they sweep over those gathered. Caramel colored locks are cropped short, a messy bob that frames her angular features. A pair of wire-framed glasses hang on the collar of her dark green muscle tee, loose black joggers hanging low on her hips to show a strip of skin. Black wraps cover her hands, and the focused look on the young woman reminds Coran of a preying lioness.

“Will your brother be joining us tonight, Pidge?” Coran questions.

Fondness dances across her features, answering, “Not tonight. Although, some of his crew might come, who knows.”

Lance perks up at that, forgetting his bickering with Keith for the moment. “Wait, so Te-Osh might be here?”

With a deadpan look, Pidge rolls her eyes. “You must love rejection if you're still trying with her.”

“Would it be Lance if he didn't try?” Keith retorts, Lance turning on him once again with a glare.

“Voltron, nice to see you again.”

The four freeze before turning as a unit to face the voice. Their glares are icy and Griffin stiffens beside Coran, eyeing the two groups.

Lotor stands tall, almost too tall for the basement’s low ceiling. His bleached white hair hangs in a low ponytail that drapes down his back. The rest of his crew stands at his back, the four girls menacing with their intimidating stances.

“What do you want, Lo’Real?” Lance snaps.

A low laugh leaves the man at the name. “Honestly, Lance, I don't know how else to take that other than a compliment. Only a man with great tastes would recognize another.”

“Shut up, Lotor. What do you want, anyway? Can’t you Royals do what everybody else does and sign your name on the board and leave us alone?” Hunk dismisses, shoulders pulled back in a defensive position, showing the other that his presence is no longer welcomed. It wasn’t, to begin with, either.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ezor, one of Lotor’s crew, speaks up. Her bubble gum pink hair sits high on her head in a braided ponytail. She sucks on a lollipop, painting her already colored lips a pretty red.

The four ignore the low five Ezor shares with her larger friend, Zethrid, keeping pointed glares on the leader. Lotor fights a smile, but the edges of his mouth still curl up in amusement, only serving to annoy Voltron more.

“I have done nothing to warrant your hostilities.”

“You’re right, but on principle, you’re a cocky dick and act like you own the place. So, by default we’re hostile.”

Pidge’s comment has no effect on the man. Instead, his amusement turns into delight, a bright smile cracking his face. It would be friendly except his light hazel eyes glint with mal-intent.

Coran keeps an eye, watching on the sidelines. Griffin too, her gaze still focused on the rest of the growing crowd. They’re quickly getting to capacity which means betting will be ending soon and fights will start.

“Or perhaps you’re afraid that I’ll outshine your friend? It’s not like he’s around to defend the title of “Champion.” Besides, let’s be honest here, none of you can uphold it so I might as well take it.”

With the size of the crowd, the room’s temperature increased. Now, a chill has settled. Voltron’s members' bare snarls, fists coiled tight at their sides.

“Fucking try and take it you hijo de puta!” Lance growls.

Lotor smirks and Lance almost punches him, but Keith’s words stop his actions.

“You want to prove that?” The threat hangs loud and clear between the two groups. Deep blue eyes, that border on the edge of violet, speak of a battle that few brave souls would take on.

Coran can vouch for Keith’s ability. He’s watched countless people get in that ring and fight. There’s a handful that has caught his attention for their skill. Unlike Shiro who is controlled, Keith is a fireball. He’s agile, driven to a fault, and stubborn. All traits that he sees in losers because they get too caught up in the moment. Keith, on the other hand, manages to make it work for him. He channels that emotion, and despite his impulsivity, makes coordinated attacks that exploit his opponent’s weakness.

Lotor battles the same, except he’s ruthless. All the fights here are clean, but that doesn’t mean that a fighter won’t give their opponent a chance to surrender. Lotor fights with the intention of making his victim go limp. No opportunity to call for an end or tap out, he ensures that they are knocked out cold and he’s forced to stop.

“Gladly,” Lotor answers. “However, another time, Kogane. I’m not one for petty fights. If we’re going to battle for the title then we’ll do it the right way through a tournament. Equal chance and all that.”

“Because you’re such a fair guy,” Lance seethes with sarcasm, the veins in his forearms pronounced from how tight his hands are fisted.

Lotor places a hand over his heart, the faux hurt making Pidge want to gag. “I’m sorry you think so lowly of me, Lance. But that fight was-”

“Bullshit,” Hunk defends with a low rumble. “You exploited his attraction for you to win that fight. That makes you a piece of shit.”

The hair on the back of Coran’s neck stands on end, the tension between these two groups getting out of hand. He doesn’t intervene yet. Except he does cut a glance at Griffin who nods her head at the silent direction. Voltron may be some of Coran’s favorite people, but rules are rules. You want to settle a problem, it’s done in the ring and only the ring. Anything outside of that brings the wrath of the Unilu.

The careless shrug of Lotor has Lance stepping forward, and Coran and Griffin tensing. But Hunk’s sudden fierce grip around Lance’s arm stops him, leaving the two to exchange heated looks.

“All right, the betting table is closed! Fighters get ready!” Cassandra hollers, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.

Cheers erupt, the patrons getting in position while fighters warm up. Anjay makes their way down the stairs, stopping short when they see the Royals and Voltron. Coran meets their questioning gaze, shaking his head in the slightest. The three Unilu watch with bated breaths before Lotor grins and turns his back.

“Have a good night, Voltron. I look forward to that tournament soon.”

The girls follow after their leader, Ezor shooting the group a peace sign before they disappear into the crowd.

Tension sits heavy in the air, suffocating. Until Pidge speaks up with a simple, bland, “What a dick.”

Lance snorts, coiled muscles relaxing as he pats Hunk’s hand. The larger man releases him, giving him a nudge in support. Keith, on the other hand, continues to glare into the crowd, like he can kill the man on the spot with his gaze alone.

“Cool it, mullet,” Lance orders, flicking Keith’s bangs. It breaks the other man’s focus, redirecting that harsh scowl.

“We’ll get our chance at the tournament. It’s probably why he approached in the first place. He’s challenging us.”

Keith nods, rubbing his thumb over his clenched fists. “We’ll be ready. Nobody’s fucking with our crew.”

“Damn right,” the others respond back resolute.

Coran watches the four fighters shake off the incident, an edge to them now which will come out in the upcoming fights. A smirk toys his mustached lips. It’s been a while since the Champion tournament has been held, and the man would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited to see what results it would yield.

After all, a power struggle for top crew always draws in the big money.


	2. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk + Shay = Cinnamon Rolls With a Love too Pure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to slyphantomm for your amazing comment! It made my day <3
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!

The crowd cheers, the sharp whistles and yells the beat in which the fighters keep rhythm to. Packed in tight, the accumulated body heat makes the enclosed room’s temperature shy of uncomfortable.

Two fighters face off in the makeshift ring, the crowd acting as the ropes of a typical one. Voltron stands together, critiquing the competition while Hunk warms up.

Pidge nurses a split lip and a tender shoulder from her fight. Relaxing on a large crate so that she can see better, Lance stays at her side and pokes her in the side every few minutes.

The fight was close with Pidge barely making it out as the victor. Still, every fight leaves the smallest member of their group jumpy with adrenaline. Her hands shake while her mind becomes consumed with the replay of the fight, analyzing every move she made and critiquing it. Lance’s annoying prodding keeps her from getting lost in her thoughts.

Hunk stretches his arms, gaze focused on the fight before him. The orange headband he wears is gone, letting his bangs fall in his face. His black hoodie with pineapples printed all over the material was shed, revealing muscle-bound arms accented by a black muscle tee. The dark color accents his warm brown skin, a few scars marring his forearms, rippling with the flexing of his muscles.

Drawing in a deep breath, Hunk holds it for a few seconds and releases in time with the crowd’s sudden cheering. The fight ends with a tap out. Blood spills from the loser’s eyebrow, the victor standing with his arms up and fists raw. Hunk takes another slow breath, soaking up all the oxygen he can.

“You're going up against Rax.”

Keith dwarfs in size compared to him. Where Hunk stands tall, Keith comes up to his shoulders. Hunk’s frame resembles a lineman while Keith has the body of a gymnast, lithe and lean.

“Seriously?” Lance snaps, annoyance mixed with frustration twisting his face.

“Lance,” Keith growls in warning, shooting a sharp glare at the tanned man. He raises his hands in surrender before crossing them without another word.

Turning back to Hunk, Keith lays a reassuring hand on the bigger man’s shoulder. The gesture eases some of the anxiety growing in the fighter’s chest, but it's different. Keith doesn't do the consoling thing. With Shiro gone, though, Keith holds the position of leader. So, despite being awkward with comforting, he's trying and Hunk appreciates it.

“You got this,” he reassures. “Besides, you’re already in the doghouse with Shay, how much more damage could you do by beating the shit out of her brother?”

Pidge releases a pained groan while Lance slaps his palm against his face. They know he tries to help, but sometimes they would prefer if Keith left the motivational speeches to someone better equipped with social cues.

A tired sigh escapes Hunk. “Buddy, that really doesn’t inspire confidence.”

Confusion paints the smaller man’s features, adding, “I’m just saying, she’s not here and he wanted this fight.”

“Not helping, Keith.”

“Right,” he murmurs, a frown tugging at his thin mouth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. A fight is a fight. Gotta do what we came here for.”

With that, Hunk cracks his knuckles before weaving his way through the crowd to the front.

Pidge, Keith, and Lance stay rooted in their spots. From their place against the back wall, they have a decent view of the ring, even if they have to shift around to see over the crowd’s head.

“Nice job there, Mullet.”

“Shut up, Lance.”

Lance huffs, nudging Pidge whose crossed legs are bouncing. “Do we know if Shay is coming tonight for certain?”

Her wire frame glasses sit on the tip of her pointy nose and she pushes them back up while running her tongue over the split in her lip. She shrugs, attention focused on the center of the ring where Hunk now stands. Rax stands opposite him, skin darker than Hunk’s and a mean scowl written across his harsh features. This fight won’t end pretty on either side.

“They’re not my crew, Lance. Matt may be my brother but I don’t know how he runs things. All I know for certain is that Matt won’t be here tonight.”

“Let’s hope for Hunk’s benefit that she stayed home,” he mutters, settling against the wall as his best friend begins to circle the ring.

Keith leans on the large crate Pidge sits atop of, arms crossed and deep indigo eyes focused.

The three wear stone masks, not giving anything away. This place exploits weaknesses. During these nights, people are safe, but that doesn’t branch out to the streets after. Coran makes it clear that what happens here stays here, but he doesn’t control anything outside of his doors. So, it’s better to keep a tight lip and a cold facade than to show the nerves that come with watching your friend fight.

Cold indifference gazes down Rax as Hunk and him dance around each other, waiting to see who will give first. Per usual, though, Rax breaks. He launches at Hunk, having a few inches and some pounds on the man. His fist swings wide, easy for Hunk to dodge and deliver a counter hit in the form of a swift kick to the side. Keeping his arms up, he protects his face, deflecting other blows when he can.

Rax tackles Hunk, feet scrambling for purchase on the vinyl mat as the two stays upright. Pushing and shoving, elbows knocking against cheekbones and jaws. Their ragged breaths drowned out by the hype of the crowd who seem to push in on them.

Hunk’s head cracks back, iron soaking his taste buds. He shakes his head, grimacing against the pain as he gets a hold of Rax, and then he twists, using all of his weight in his favor as he throws the man to the mat. It doesn’t do much to hurt Rax, but it gives Hunk a second to catch his breath.

He watches his opponent roll to his feet, both of their clenched fists at the ready. Exhaustion starts creeping into his muscles and he knows he needs to finish this quick. Rax looks tired himself, except the rage in his coffee black eyes tells Hunk that he’ll be the first to tire before the other gives up.

Sweat drips down his face, burning his eyes. The crowd’s voices boom in his ears, but his pounding heartbeat drowns it out. Blood coats his tongue still, Hunk fighting his gag reflex while he draws in a sharp breath through his nose. He bides his time, waiting for Rax to make the first move, to let the rage consume and control.

His moment arrives, Rax snarling before coming in with a flurry of fists and kicks. Hunk blocks the left hook. The kick catches him high on the side where vulnerable ribs lie, though, making the large man wince. He dodges the following jab, attacking with his own combo. Two left-hand jabs break through Rax’s weak defense and connect with his nose.

Even over the roar of the crowd, the crunch is audible, twisting Hunk’s stomach. Bile teases the back of his throat and he swallows it back along with the thick iron pooled in his mouth. Instinct has his body twisting, throwing all of his weight behind a nasty right hook that lands with precision.

Rax’s head snaps to the side, a spray of saliva following as he goes limp, hitting the floor with a disturbing thud.

Breaths ragged, Hunk waits, seeing if the stubborn man will try to get up. He doesn’t. A pained groan meets his ears instead while the betters moan with the loss or cheer with the win. One voice, though, rings out loud and clear over the crowd.

“Fuck yeah, Hunk!”

A soft grin frames his lips hearing Lance’s praise before turning his attention to his opponent. Slowly, Rax rolls to his back, eyes squeezed shut. Aches and pains of his own are making themselves aware. He can’t imagine how Rax feels.

“Need a hand?” he offers, standing over the prone man.

Dark eyes open enough to glare, teeth barred as he snarls with pain lacing his words. “Fuck you, Garrett.”

Ignoring him, Hunk grabs his hand anyway, yanking him upright. Rax sways and he steadies him. Keeping a tight grip, he meets the man’s hateful gaze, voice low with a warning.  

“What’s going on between your sister and me is none of your business. Keep picking fights with me like this and you’re going to lose her. I’ve proven myself to you. She’s a grown woman. Let her make her own damn choices and quit driving us apart.”

Hunk pulls away, the crowd parting to let him through as they clap him on the back in congrats. Nothing shows on his face -- not a grin of accomplishment or a sneer of anger. Not until Lance, Keith, and Pidge greet him with pride shining in their eyes and easy smiles. Then, warm like an early summer sun, contentment contorts the serious lines of Hunk’s face into softer ones.

Pidge high fives him, Keith gives him a brief nod and Lance hugs him tight. He cringes at the fierce embrace, hissing as shocks of agony shoot along his left side. Concern pinches Lance’s features before he wordlessly lifts his friend’s arm and prods at the tender spot.

“Ow!” The yelp escaping against his will when slender fingers press at the most sensitive area. No preamble, Lance pulls his shirt up and inspects the injury. Of course, though, nothing shows. It’s too early for the deep bruising to appear on his darker skin tone. That doesn’t stop his best friend scrutinizing with a critical eye.

“It’s fine, Lance. Just stop poking at it.”

He huffs, releasing Hunk. “Maybe you should get it looked at. Play it on the safe side.”

Pidge snorts. “We’re fighters, man. We can handle a few bruised ribs and scrapes.”

“Besides, who’s he going to see? Slav?”

They all cringe at Keith’s mention of Coran’s on-site medic. The guy can work miracles. He’s a fantastic medic, but his bedside manner could use a lot of work. Everyone who comes to the Castle of Lions knows that Slav only gets called if copious amounts of blood are involved, bones have broken skin, or they stay knocked out for longer than a minute. Otherwise, they keep the man scarce. People are tended to for a split eyebrow and walk away wondering if tonight is their last night on earth.

Great medic, but whatever his story is, he’s not all there. Paranoia and superstition rule his life, bleeding over into the care he gives. He’ll patch up an injury with the expertise of a doctor with fifty plus years of experience. At the same time, he’ll mention the 0.025% chance that the broken bone he reset could not be set properly leading to some insane medical emergency that could lead to death.

“Fine,” Lance relents, a hint of a frown tugging at his mouth. “At least go get some ice. That was a nasty kick.”

Hunk grunts in acknowledgment, the injury flaring up at the mention of it. “It was,” he mutters with a blunt agreement.

“Shit,” Pidge curses, honey eyes growing wide behind the thin wire frame glasses perched on her nose. Dumbfounded, Keith and Lance stare right over Hunk’s shoulder. Shoulders tensing, hands balling at his sides he prepares for a potential fight. Instead, when he spins on the balls of his feet, his mouth drops open.

Shit doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. Yet, despite the knot of dread taking residence in his gut, his heart stutters at the sight before him.

Shay, the woman he fell in love with the moment they met in high school, stands with her hip cocked to the side, hands on her curvaceous hips. Rich umber skin covered with short jean shorts and a baggy t-shirt, that Hunk recognizes as one of his own, she stares back with a cold expression. Her pouty lips are pulled into a tight line, handing over a clear bag of ice.

“Take it,” she orders, and Hunk does, struggling for words.

 He knows that if they were anywhere else, this greeting would have started off a lot different. Coran runs a tight ring here, and if Shay had greeted him with a slap then it would have only caused problems. More than either of them needs.

Hands-free, she runs them through her full, bushy afro, at war with herself. Hunk doesn’t waste a second in applying the ice, wincing at the sudden cold touch.

That seems to tug Shay out of her debate, melting that cold demeanor into one of pinched worry.

“How bad is it?” Her question is spoken with a softness that contradicts her figure.

Shay has curves, but there’s muscle hiding under the bigger shirt she wears. Shoulders are rounded with large muscles, lean lines defining the bulge of her biceps and deltoids. Men take one look at her and turn in the other direction -- out of fear or disinterest. Hunk, however, loves seeing his girlfriend showcase her strength. They’re both fighters out of necessity, but Shay gets enjoyment out of it compared to Hunk. He falls more on the lover side than the fighter.

“Not that bad,” he brushes off, not wanting to rat on Rax. Even if he doesn’t care for the guy, it’s his girlfriend’s brother.

Rolling her eyes, she crosses her arms over her chest with a raised eyebrow. He bites his lip, chin dropping to his chest to avoid her pointed gaze. The crowd erupts in a new wave of screams with the new batch of fighters. Prior to the fight, the heat was stifling. Now with Shay across from him, it’s suffocating.

Lance wanders into Hunk’s peripheral with a shyness that is rare. “Hey, I don’t mean to intrude, but Shay, you know Rax has been the driving force behind this? He challenged Hunk. You know how this place runs. A challenge must be met.”

Breathing an exhausted breath, her defenses begin crumbling. The corner of her full lips curls up, a silent thanks to Lance before he steps back to join Keith and Pidge.

Hunk knows he owes his buddy a thank you after that. It diffused the tension that Hunk was useless to fix. Now, though, a long silence hangs between them. The crowd’s voices fill his head, leaving the fighter wishing for a quiet moment to organize his scattered thoughts. Shay does this to him, though. His train of thought always derailed in her presence.

“I’m sorry.”

The murmured apology almost drowned out by the jeers and shouts. Although, Hunk would never miss that caressing touch her words leave even at a distance. Her voice washes over him like fresh cotton and early morning sunshine.

“You know I love you, right? But, babe, I...Rax is your brother. You know what family means to me, and I know what it means to you. He wants you to choose a side, but that’s not fair just because he has a grudge against me. I won’t make you pick. I’ll never put that on you. So...just know I’m here. Nothing will make me go anywhere. Take your time to sort out what you need to.”

Tears shine in those pools of onyx, a shaky smile brightening her troubled features. She wipes a stray tear away, Hunk’s fingers itching to wrap her in his arms and soothe her pain.

“You’re too good for me,” she responds, closing the space between them.

Toned arms wrap around his shoulders, minding his bruised ribs. The embrace lasts for a brief moment, gentle and full of love before plush lips press to his temple, easy to reach thanks to the same height.

He wipes another tear free of her smooth cheek. “You’re all I want. Take all the time you need.”

Nodding, reluctance heavy in her gaze, she turns away from him, weaving through the crowd. Hunk doesn’t stop watching her until she disappears up the stairs with Rax trailing close behind with slumped shoulders.

A familiar presence at his right side keeps his thoughts from spiraling into an anxiety-induced downward spiral. “If you weren’t head over heels for her and you liked dudes, I would marry you in a heartbeat.”

Snorting a laugh, Hunk pats Lance on the back. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Any time, my man.”

Pushing his troubled relationship to the back of his thoughts he returns to his crew. Pidge and Keith both raise questioning eyebrows and he eases their concern with an easy grin. They relax at the simple reassurance before Pidge dives into her analysis of the fight happening. He leans back against the wall with Lance, listening to her debate with Keith over fighting style.

Things may be a mess right now, but here, the Caste of Lions, Hunk can forget about the outside world. For a few hours, the complex world is simplified to fists and adrenaline. How he ended up here still baffles him. Looking back, he can never figure it out.

Was it Lance who dragged him here? A need for quick money to help keep him afloat? Wanting something to change up a stressful and monotonous life? He has no clue.

The only fact he knows for certain, glancing at his crew, is that he would never change the past because then he never would have met these people, who he now calls family.

Some hours later, when the pitch-black sky holds hints of dark violet, Voltron leaves the Castle of Lions, pockets full of their hard-earned winnings. Bruises have fully blossomed, muscles protesting while fatigue hits them hard and leaves eyes drooping despite the high a good fight brings. Together, the four of them walk the illuminated streets, heads on a swivel as they watch their backs.

Quiet settles between them, ears perked and eyes focused on every alleyway and dark corner they approach. Not until a familiar blue and pink light appears does the unease begin to unravel leaving them the exhausted fighters they are.

“Oh man,” Hunk groans, rubbing his belly. “I cannot wait for a stack of pineapple pancakes!”

Pidge nods in eager agreement, “Man, same! And a side of bacon.”

“Guys,” Lance moans, blue eyes far away with a dreamy glaze as he clutches his stomach. “I’m already starving. Don’t make it worse.”

Keith shakes his head in amusement as they cross the street to the doors of the Galaxy Garrison. The aromas wafting from inside the 24-hour diner draw a collected sigh of contentment from the crew. It’s a novelty, the kind of place that will be around until the end of the world. Everyone and their grandmother have been to the Galaxy Garrison, the menu barely changing from owner to owner.

After every night at the Castle of Lions, Voltron makes their way to the diner. It’s a classic place with black and white tile floors and black vinyl benches. Walking into the place throws them back into the 80s with a few slight modern twists to remind them what year they are still in. Fried food and sweet pastries assault their senses the minute they pass through the glass doors, a scent that is more than welcomed after a long night of beat downs.

Led Zeppelin plays in the background, the hard rocking guitar a sharp wake-up call in the early morning hours. Voltron perks up visibly crossing the threshold, hungry grins framing their worn features.

Iverson, the owner, and late-night cook stands behind the counter at the griddle. His close-shaven hair shows hints of gray along with the well-trimmed goatee. Dark skinned, his hideous orange apron spotted with specks of bacon grease, the man gives off the meanest aura. Yet, he cooks as well as Hunk, who is a master chef among everyone who tastes his cooking.

Turning away from his task at the griddle, Iverson nods in greeting, left eye permanently shut from some injury that none of them dare to ask about. Greeting the cook, the team heads for their corner booth, Hunk, Pidge, and Lance caught up in a sudden debate over which flavor milkshake is the best. Keith tunes them out, half paying attention as he readies to slide into his typical spot.

Except someone is already there.

He freezes, eyes traveling up the stranger’s body until he lands on familiar features. The others stumble to a stop behind Keith, jaws dropping open.

“Thought I’d find you here,” the man greets with a bright smile that lights up dark obsidian eyes and crinkles the pink scar stretched over his nose.

“Shiro!”

All four of them tumble into the booth, dogpiling the man. He’s pinned, laughing barely with the weight on top of him. The crew speaks all at once with their words rolling together into indistinguishable noises.

“Hey!” Iverson’s commanding voice snaps. “You break it, you buy it!”

One by one, the members of Voltron get off Shiro and settle in their respective seats. It’s a small booth, but the coziness of being squished together makes the moment. Hunk and Lance sit opposite of Shiro, Keith, and Pidge. All attention settles on the man of the hour, gazes trying and failing not to stare at the sleek metal limb resting on the table top or the scar across his face.

Keith breaks the sudden silence, wearing a sincere grin as he clasps a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, the one leading to the prosthetic. “Good to have you back, man.”

The others didn’t notice before, but Shiro’s shoulders relax, tension draining from them.

“It’s good to be back.”

From there they fall into an animated conversation, desperate to catch up on all that has been missed. Iverson brings their orders over, none of them even having to place one since the chef knows by heart by now. A buffet of pancakes, bacon, hash browns, and scrambles fill the space, everyone picking at each other’s plates. They eat until their bellies are on the verge on bursting, slumped against one another while continuing to talk.

“Yeah, I came in and Iverson nearly strapped me to the table for an interrogation on where I’d been,” Shiro jokes, recounting his entrance of the diner since his incident.

“Nearly a year, boy,” Iverson barks. “Of course, I want answers to where my golden customer had disappeared to!”

“Aww, sounds like you might actually care, Iverson.” Lance’s teasing lilt earning a menacing glare.

“Watch it, McClain. Talking like that gets you surprise spit takes in your next meal.”

The tanned man blanches, Hunk gagging next to him. Lance shakes his head in abject horror of the mere idea. “You, my sir, are one cold motherfucker.”

Smiling bright, pride shining in his one good eye, the chef nods. “Damn right, I am.”

“He just doesn’t want to admit he’s got a soft spot for us,” Pidge murmurs under her breath, drawing knowing looks from the other crew members.

The night shifts are covered by the chef, meaning Voltron always comes during his time. In a way, Iverson has become something like a coach to them. Not in the sense that he gives useful tips. No, instead, he yells at them for doing stupid stunts and gives pep talks that simultaneously cut them down and build them up.

“Seriously, though, glad to have you back, Shiro. Now, we can kick that royal ass, Lotor, and shut him up for good.”

Shiro scrunches his face, crossing his thick muscled arm and cybernetic one. His shock white floof of hair hangs in his eyes, in need of a trim as he flicks it out of his vision.

“Lotor?”

“Leader of a new group that came up while you were gone,” Keith explains, distaste written all over his brooding face. “They call themselves the Royals and they’re more brutal than the Galra or Blades.”

“Why are we on their bad side?”

“We’re not,” Pidge defends. “Lotor thinks he’s hot shit. Since you’ve been gone, people have been considering another run for the title. Lotor wants it.”

A grimace twists Shiro’s mouth, fingers tapping away at his metal bicep. Keith watches his friend, scrutinizing. Dark bags line his eyes and beneath the table, his leg bounces. He’s anxious, an itch under his skin that he can’t quell. Something that Keith is well acquainted with.

“The question is, Shiro, are you ready to come back?”

The man stares at the empty plates, thoughts running a mile a minute, but the thought of getting in the ring again already eases the twisting anxiety that has made a permanent residence in his chest.

Slowly, a wide smile tugs at his lips, drawing eager ones from the others. “Let’s show them what Voltron is made of.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! 
> 
> Voltron is ready for a fight and Lotor better be prepared because Shiro is back! But what happened to our leader while he was away? 
> 
> A lot of this story will revolve around Shiro, but every character will get their own chapter (fight) and I'll be delving into certain relationships to give some background on how everyone came together and what's happened in the year that Shiro has been missing. This is about all of them and why they fight here, how they came together, and what this crew means to them. 
> 
> I'm super excited about this story and I hope you all enjoy it. Tell me what you like so far! 
> 
> Chapters will be updated as I finish writing new ones. So however long that takes, then there will be an update. A chapter for a chapter. Keeps me motivated to finish the story and not leave you all hanging :) 
> 
> See you next time!


	3. Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro + Allura = Best Friends
> 
> Lance + Flirting = Embarrasment
> 
> Shiro + Fighting = Quality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are my summaries like they are? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Shout out again to the wonderful slyphantomm, Red Lion, and TheGoblinKing111! You're comments make my day! 
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m still certain that this is a terrible idea.”

Shiro sighs, running his gloved, flesh hand through his white forelock of hair. He tries not to focus on the reason why it’s white. The same line of thinking he avoids when he wakes up every morning with a flinch because of his cold carbon fiber prosthetic against his bare chest.

“So, you’ve said,” he breathes out, a note of annoyance in his words. Leaning back against the chain link fence, he stuffs his gloved hands in his jean jacket.

The weather teeters on that weird in between where the sun makes you sweat during the day and the night raises goosebumps.

Allura purses her lips, crossing her arms. Her short white bob ends at her jaw, layered and giving it that tousled look. Especially with the next breeze that barrels down the alleyway which causes those strands to fly into her face. Crystal blue eyes glare at him, a mix of emotions swirling in their depths. She wears her brown leather jacket over a pink band tee that has the sleeves cut off, hiding warm tawny colored arms that are lean with muscle. Paired with jeans and her converse, Shiro knows that she will blend in with the crowd tonight.

The Castle of Lions does not always welcome newcomers with open arms. He needed her to fit his crew’s appearance as much as possible to avoid someone trying to pick a fight with her to prove her worth. Not that she would have a problem doing so. However, she didn’t tag along to fight. She just wants to make sure Shiro doesn’t get hurt.

He doesn’t know how he got so lucky in finding a friend like her.

“Are you sure this is wise, Shiro?” Her British lilt questions him with worry underlying her words.

Another huff escapes him before he reassures once more. “Allura, I swear I’m good. Plus, if anything goes wrong, I have you there to have my back.”

It seems to be the right words because her stiff posture relaxes a bit. Even a soft smile frames her lips. “Thank you for bringing me along. It does make me feel better knowing I can keep an eye on you.”

He returns the tender smile, warmed at the support she always exudes. She leans back beside him, mirroring his position.

“Not that I don’t trust this ‘crew’ you have…”

“Allura, I _know_ you don’t trust them,” he teases, aware of his friend’s wariness of the group of strangers he hangs out with.

In the two years that he met and helped create Voltron, he would happily call them family. With both his parents dead and no siblings, he’s grateful for the opportunity to now have four of them. Although, he wonders if that connection still exists after the last year.

Sheepish, she tries to mask her uncertainty. “It's just that-”

“I met them in an underground fighting ring and know very little about what goes on in their real lives except for the fact that they each have their reason for fighting?”

Rolling her eyes, Allura gives him a playful shove. “Okay, _sir._ ”

He cringes, groaning at the accomplished look in those bright eyes. “Allura.”

“Don't ‘Allura’ me.”

Shiro snorts and her toying glare eases as she laughs. The moon sits high in the sky, midnight closing in on them. Its crescent shape gives off little light, but the street lamps cast a yellow glow on the sidewalks and dark silhouettes down the alleyway. Shiro and Allura hang in the darker parts, shrouded in the blackness. They stare at the brick wall in front of them, a park behind the metal fence they lean against. Trees line the fence line, standing tall and intimidating in the night with their shaking branches that hang down like arms to snatch you up.

He still doesn’t understand why they picked this as their meeting place. They could meet in the park instead of a creepy alley. But he won’t complain. It’s a tradition now and he’s not a big fan of changing a good thing.

“What are their names again?” Allura asks when their amusement settles.

“Pidge, Keith, Hunk, and Lance.”

Her lips part to question him some more, but a loud voice billows from the mouth of the alley; flirtatious and full of confidence.

“Say my name and the man appears. Who’s the lucky individual wanting a little Lancey Lance?”

Shiro slumps in defeat, his face contorted in disapproval when he secretly finds great amusement in Lance’s excitable personality.

“Lance,” he chastises with a defeated tone. The man just winks at him and ignores it as he approaches and stops in front of Allura.

The others follow behind Lance with a quick greeting for Shiro. Keith gives him a simple nod, Pidge waves before a pleased smirk twists her lips, and Hunk’s face lights up with a bright smile.

Making a grand scene, Lance bows at the waist, extending his hand for Allura to take. She plays along a hint of mischief in her gaze that Lance is oblivious too. But Shiro knows Allura, and he knows what will come in a few minutes. So, instead of warning his friend, he watches with a blank face.

Taking her hand, Lance presses a sweet kiss to it before looking up into her eyes. Batting his eyelashes and flashing his signature grin, he greets with a smooth, velvety voice.

“Hi, the name’s Lance.”

“Allura.” She returns the greeting, pulling her hand away.

“Ah, only fitting for a woman who is so _alluring_.”

The others cover their laughs with coughs while Shiro bites his lip to hide a smile. Allura side-eyes him, a clear question of _really?_ He shrugs while she turns her full attention back on Lance. With arms crossed, she stares down at him with a raised brow.

“That’s your line?”

Spluttering, Lance’s persona crumbles before them. “Hey,” he cries. “I thought that was pretty good!”

Rolling her eyes, Allura steps to him, forcing him to stumble back until his back is against the brick of the building. He swallows hard, looking up at Allura as she leans in, caging him in with one arm. Shiro knows the look she’s wearing without having to see it.

Her eyelashes will brush her cheeks, a sultry twist of her lips as she looks like she could eat you up. She’ll lick her lips, bite it once and then don a smoky voice that makes men melt.

Lance’s tanned skin flushes a deep red, captivated by the woman as she whispers with that sweet accent, “I hear you can fight. How about you show me some moves? I like it rough.”

Pidge whistles under her breath -- the others drawn in too by her seductive spell.

“Mierda,” Lance murmurs, awestruck and completely enticed by Allura’s little game. Then she steps back and crosses her arms with a cocky grin.

“Now that’s how you use a pick-up line.”

Wide-eyed, Lance stares at Allura. Betrayal, pride, and adoration swim in his ocean eyes before he frowns, narrowing his gaze. He sets his jaw and points a finger at her.

“Who is this chick, Shiro?”

Amused, Shiro crosses his arms, giving a simple answer. “My best friend and a hell of a warrior on the battlefield.”

Allura’s laugh rings in the night. “I think you give me more credit than I deserve, Shiro.”

He shrugs, unaware of the shocked state of his other friends. That is until Pidge blurts out her questions.

“Hold up, is this the friend you always talk about? The one from the military?”

“Oh, you talk about me, huh?” Allura teases with a cheeky grin, hands on her hips.

Shiro rolls his eyes, but nods in answer to Pidge’s questions. “Yes, she is.”

“Argh!” Lance cries, moping as he pouts. “Man, not only is she attractive and good at flirting, but she’s also military?!”

Ignoring Lance’s cries, the others fire off questions, desperate to comprehend the legend before them. Shiro spoke often of his ‘military friend,’ yet he never gave any background on her. They knew the soldier was a woman, but they never got a name or a description, just incredible stories that had this woman rising up the ranks in record speed.

“Okay, okay, let me clarify this. Allura here is the same person who rammed a guy through a wall?” Hunk questions, awestruck at the thought that this is the real legend he has admired from Shiro’s stories.

Shiro nods while Allura blushes, trying to downplay Hunk’s words. However, Pidge jumps in too.

“Or when they threw a soldier into four others and held a door shut against a group of soldiers while her fellow comrades escaped?”

“Yep,” he answers, patting Allura on the back. She glares at him, yet pride shines in her crystal gaze.

 Allura had no idea that Shiro spoke of her in such a manner. They traded stories all the time, reminiscing on their time in the military -- the good and the bad. Never had she considered Shiro boasting her feats to others.

“Wow,” Hunk and Pidge gasp together, eyes shining.

“Cool.” Keith comments, shattering the idolizing happening. “Is she fighting with us?”

“Uh, no,” Shiro answers. “She wants to see what all of this is.”

“And keep an eye on you,” Allura adds, giving Shiro a pointed look.

Keith glares at the woman with the short white hair. He crosses his arms, cocking his hip to the side as he regards her. “Why? He’s a skilled fighter. You of all people should know that.”

_The hothead_ , Keith’s nickname in the ring. People think that the name applies outside of fights too. Sometimes they’re right, but their reasoning is flawed. He has a short temper because he reads people and makes a decision right then and there whether they are a threat or not. He doesn’t trust easy. Even if this person is Shiro’s close friend, it doesn’t mean they can be trusted, and because he hasn’t gotten a good read on the woman yet, he’s defensive.

Gaze sharpening, Allura’s lips pull into a tight line as she pulls her shoulders back and straightens. She stands taller than Keith, though most of the group is beside Pidge. However, height doesn’t intimidate the young man. He wouldn’t be the skilled fighter he is if it did.

“I’m well aware of his skill set. We fought for several years side by side. If anyone here knows his fighting prowess, that would be me. The reason I am here is to make sure he is safe. It is you that I do not trust.”

A snarl tugs at Keith’s lips, Shiro stepping between the two with a curt look towards Allura.

He had warned her, even pleaded that she does not underestimate his crew. Sure, they’re young, but they aren’t that young. Pidge is the only one Shiro would still consider to be a child at eighteen. Even then, after what she has suffered, he would say that she is more mature than some older men he knows.

“That’s quite an assumption coming from a soldier who’s trained not to underestimate their enemy. You should be careful with that line of thinking, _princess,_ don’t want to make an ass of yourself.”

Lance saunters up beside Keith, leaning on the man and ignoring the angered shove he receives. It does cool Keith down, though, easing the fire in his gaze to a simmer.

Shiro growls a warning of Lance’s name, but he keeps his focus on the affronted features of the woman. Maintaining her gaze, he addresses Shiro and Allura.

“Sorry, Shiro. It’s no offense to you, but you know we don’t take any shit. Doesn’t matter who it’s coming from. We’ve watched your back through every fight. That’s our job as a crew.”

There’s more to those words, a deeper meaning behind them that everyone understands. It catches Allura off guard at the solidarity before her. Nostalgia washes over her -- standing before men twice her size and defending her fellow brothers and sisters in arms from assholes.

Lowering her gaze, a blush tinting her features, Allura burns with shame. Shiro sighs, ready to defend her against the truth of Lance’s words. He shouldn’t have to, though, and Allura blames herself for putting him in the middle like this.

“You’re right,” she breathes out. Meeting each gaze of this crew, even Shiro’s as she apologizes. “I’m sorry for judging you. It is clear to me now that this is not some joke to you all. Truly, you all care about one another and not on only a superficial level, I see. Shiro is my closest friend. He is my family, and I wanted to make sure that he was in good hands. You’re right, though. I should not have made any assumptions on you all without seeing you in your element first.”

The indifferent and cruel demeanor Lance wears shifts as he flashes a carefree smile. “Apology accepted. Now, can we get going? I’ve been itching all week to punch something and I’m sure there are a few people who are more than willing.”

“More like there’s someone willing to punch you,” Pidge retorts. She stuffs her hands in her dark green hoodie with a laugh as Lance tries to shove her. Evading him, she bounces ahead a few steps until he takes off after her, a shriek of laughter trailing behind them.

“Guys, come on!” Hunk moans, following after the two who are now fighting each other on the street.

Keith hangs behind with Allura and Shiro. Obsidian eyes meet that indigo gaze, the brief look enough to communicate a whole conversation. For the two of them, it has always been like that. They understand each other’s body language as though they grew up together. Shiro knows that Keith will be cordial, but he can tell with the sharp glance towards Allura that it will be some time before he trusts her. She attacked the group, gave Keith a reason to be untrustworthy. A tight nod and he turns away to follow after the others.

Shiro hears him make a comment to Lance before both of their voices are rising, trading insults. He shakes his head, breathing a rough sigh.

“I’m sorry, Shiro.”

Allura’s soft features are wrought with shame. He nudges her, a soothing smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s all right. That was a warning. You’re fine, now. Keith won’t bite unless you give him a reason too, but don’t expect any friendly conversation from him. The others, though, will let it be. You apologized and that’s good enough for them.”

Worry remains in her gaze and he ruffles her short bob and she swats his hands away, fighting to glare at him when he laughs. She loses that battle and cracks a smile while rolling her eyes.

Flicking the white forelock of hair, she lets the incident slip to the back of her mind. If Shiro forgives her then she should let it go. She can worry later about the others and how to mend their rocky start.

“Rude,” Shiro huffs, running his fingers through the hair hanging into his face while Allura fixes hers.

Allura sticks her tongue out at him in retaliation before they both burst out in laughter and finally leave the alleyway. Hunk, Pidge, Lance, and Keith are down the block all debating something when Hunk calls out to them.

“Come on! We’re going to be late!”

Shiro grins, quickening his pace. Allura’s smile softens, following a little behind as she watches her best friend relax for the first time in a year. She may not know these people or agree with what they do, but if it makes Shiro smile like a six-year-old then she doesn’t care.

She’ll do anything for her best friend.

* * *

 

Voltron stands in line to enter the back door to the Castle of Lions. Muscle memory carries each of them through the process, forking over the door money, nodding that they understand the rules, spreading arms and legs while Anjay pats them down. Until Shiro stands in the doorway.

Travis hesitates, recognition behind thick black glasses. “Nice to see you again, Champion,” the man finally greets, taking the cash from Shiro’s flesh hand.

The prosthetic hides in the pocket of his joggers, double protected with a glove. Allura reminds him all the time to not be ashamed of it, but mind over matter is harder than everyone says. People don’t like foreign. What they don’t know makes them uncomfortable and having a fully functioning, top of the line prosthetic that is the first of its kind makes people wary. So, he hides it for the moment.

Anjay greets him with a wide, toothy grin. They explain the rules and Shiro reminisces about his first time here. Nothing much has changed in that time. Almost four years ago he found the Castle of Lions. In that time, the only changes Shiro can note are the new piercings on Anjay and the increase in new faces that were in line. Slight minuscule changes that mean absolutely nothing, but that’s what Shiro likes.

The Castle of Lions is a constant in his life. He wants that back.

Anjay begins their pat down, starting from the legs up which he always found weird. He never comments, though, happy to let them do their own thing. Now, he’s grateful because it gives him a few extra seconds to prepare for when they begin to squeeze his arms. These pat downs are quick but thorough.

Both hands will slide up and down each leg and circle the ankle, checking pockets along the way. Hands will swipe down the sides of the torso, chest, back, and then both hands will slide up the arms before checking the wrist area. It ensures that nobody can hide weapons or drugs. Shiro admires that, grateful the day he got the invite.

The whole pat down takes thirty to forty seconds to complete depending on if Anjay finds someone suspicious.

They run their hands over his chest, down his flesh arm, then turn to his right arm. Shiro holds his breath as their hands trail down the flesh shoulder and mid-bicep, and then meet the carbon fiber. Anjay’s eyebrows rise up in question. He pulls off the glove in an answer. Studying the prosthetic hand, Anjay gives a slight nod and finishes checking his wrist before letting him through.

A heavy breath escapes him until Anjay calls him out. Meeting those cat-like eyes, he tenses. They always wear a smile -- full of an energy that Shiro never expected to find at an illegal fighting ring. He figured everyone would be stone-faced with permanent scowls. Not here, though. So, not seeing that bright smile has anxiety knotting his intestines.

“I don’t pick favorites, but I make the exception with you. Don’t make me lose money tonight,” they order before breaking out that disarming grin.

He laughs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

 The rest of the crew waits by the stairs, a conversation always happening whenever Lance is there. Anybody else watching the four would assume that they are oblivious, enthralled in the dialogue. Shiro knows better.

They’re posing, creating a cover while they discreetly watch from afar. Currently, their eyes are set on Allura. Shiro felt Keith’s burning stare over the others while he was being patted down. It was more of a comfort than a burden. Something familiar that he had grown to miss in his year recovering. A slight smirk tugs at his lips as he turns to watch his friend go through the same routine.

Anjay smiles, however with more malice in the grin than happiness. Shiro knows the change in demeanor is because Allura is new. He once was on the receiving end of that look and he’ll never forget it too. The way their lips curl combined with the lower, near growl their tone takes when they explain the rules leaves a lasting impression.

Allura wears a blank expression all through the experience, nodding along, and then she’s done.

 Shiro relaxes, unaware of the tension that had settled in his shoulders. Invites to the Castle of Lions are via word of mouth. The regulars get messages from unknown, untraceable numbers. He still doesn’t know how they got his number in the first place, but he lives in ignorance about that. Better to not know instead of invoking a beat down by the Unilu.

Still, even though the invites are spread by word of mouth, Shiro never brought someone that didn’t have an invite. He was nervous, even if he wasn’t acutely aware.

Smiling, Allura steps to his side and they follow the rest of Voltron down the creaky steps of the basement. Days old sweat, that sharp tinge of burnt copper, and the musky scent of mildew fill Shiro’s nostrils. An unpleasant smell for any normal person. Except Shiro loves it, the scent reminding him of a rush he thought he would no longer be able to obtain. Already his body adapts, senses sharpening in the dimmed lighting.

He lets years of training kick in with ease, eyes marking exit strategies from each corner of the room. Familiar faces catch his attention, their gaze lingering on him as he marches down the stairs and he meets each one. Some smirk, others glower, and some stare in shock. A wide range of reactions that Shiro acknowledges and prepares to handle.

Until he reaches the bottom step.

“Coran, my man!” Lance shouts over the crowd, greeting the orange haired man with a tight embrace. Griffin stands next to him, blowing a blue bubble of gum with a bored expression. Once more, the consistency eases Shiro’s anxieties -- another unchanging fact that he can use to ground himself. Hunk and Keith are flanking Lance giving their greetings while Pidge places bets and writes their names on the whiteboard. A spark of adrenaline hits him seeing his name written in black.

“A whole year and not a single message. Shiro, I’m hurt.” The teasing and boisterous voice draws his attention from the list of names to face the man of the Castle.

Coran greets him with open arms, a chuckle escaping the fighter as he welcomes the hug, albeit one-armed. His prosthetic hangs at his side, but Coran doesn’t acknowledge it. Shiro knows the man better than to assume he didn’t notice. He also knows that Coran won’t be suspicious because his crew wouldn’t have let him down these stairs if he was a threat.

“Counting the days I was gone, Coran?” Shiro teases back as the man steps away with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Of course!”

Accustomed to his blunt honesty, the fighter smiles. “Well, it’s good to be back.”

Excitement glints in stark blue eyes, Coran nodding. “It is very good to have you back, indeed. I look forward to seeing you in the ring. Haven’t lost your touch, I hope?”

Shrugging, he wears a mischievous grin. “I sure hope not. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the impression they could take the title of Champion back so easily, would I?”

Others eavesdrop, the conversation being spread around the crowd, and Shiro wants to make sure they all know that if the title fight happens, he won’t let them take it with ease.

A knowing smile twists Coran’s mustached mouth. “No. No, you would not.”

Pidge pops up between the two of them, tugging on Shiro’s arm. “Dude, let’s get to our corner! I already see some assholes getting comfy.”

“Pidge,” Shiro groans at her foul mouth. He doesn’t mind the language, but he does enjoy the reaction he receives from the small fighter.

She rolls her eyes, glasses perched on the edge of her nose. “Yeah, yeah, who gives a fuck. Move.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he catches Allura’s gaze with a raised eyebrow. She nods, the edges of her lips curled in amusement while he’s dragged forward. Allura gives a nod to Coran, who in turn tips his head in greeting. Hunk makes a path for the others, folding his arms over his chest when they come upon the three people who staked claim to their crate.     

They glance at one another before turning to Hunk with retorts on their tongues. Yet, those words die on their tongue when now met with the five of them. Lance quirks a brow at the stupefied faces.

“Now, would be a good time for you to move.”

With no retort, the three scramble away and disappear into the crowd. Pidge releases her grip on Shiro, climbing up the crate to take her spot. Hunk leans against the wall beside Lance on her right while Keith, Shiro, and Allura take the wall on the left of Pidge.

“So, who’s up first tonight, Pidge?” Keith questions, attention focused on the crowd. However, as soon as the words leave his mouth, he glances up at Shiro. The older smiles in reassurance, resting a soothing hand on his shoulder.

Keith took lead in Shiro’s absence. However, now that he has returned, he never intended to snatch the reins back. Shiro can take orders as well as he can give them. From what he’s heard from around town and what the others explained, Keith didn’t do a bad job. He didn’t believe he could lead the group, but Shiro had faith. For now, Shiro will hang back, helping when Keith needs it. Otherwise, he’s just along for the ride.

The others don’t comment on the small interaction, Pidge answering without pause. “Lance.”

“Who am I up against?”

“Antok,” she answers with no emotion.

Lance nods, drawing in a deep breath before he smiles wide. It’s not a pure smile of joy. No, hints of malice show in the view of his pearly white canines and a dark look in those eyes. “This is going to be bloody.”

Keith snorts. “No shit, you’re going to need to be quick, Lance. Hesitation with him will leave you with broken bones. Be quick and go for the kill as soon as you see an opening.”

Lance waves off the black-haired man. “I know, samurai.”

With a cocky smirk, Keith tosses an insult resulting in the two bickering yet again. Allura looks on in confusion while Shiro tunes them out. Their rivalry and fighting were never with mal-intent. Looking on the outside, nobody would believe that, but Shiro knows how the two work together. They make a great team despite how they treat each other.

A nudge and Shiro turns his attention to Allura. She continues to eye the two fighters, but asks, “Tell me about this Antok.”

“He’s part of a crew that goes by the name the Blades. They’re a tough match, but we get along well with them. Kolivan actually teaches a few classes here at the Castle of Lions. Keith used to work with them to get free lessons. So, we have a friendly rivalry with them. That doesn’t mean they go easy on us.”

The crowd doubles, the air thick with the musk of sweat and anticipation. His gaze darts to Cassandra at the betting tables. Names fill the whiteboard while she takes the last few bets. A few more minutes, then it will be time for the first fight.

“In all rights, this would be considered an unfair fight. Antok outweighs Lance a minimum eighty pounds. The man is huge, yet agile as a cat. He’s quick with his attacks, using some martial arts skills. If he gets you in a hold, you’ll have no choice but to tap or to go limp unless you know how to maneuver out of it. Even then, with his speed, you would barely get a chance before he pins you or gets a brutal hit in.”

Allura listens, her gaze also sweeping over the crowd. Nodding, she glances at Lance. “What of Lance?”

Smirking, Shiro speaks up a bit, making sure his friend can hear him. A little confidence boost will help because even though Lance looks calm, he’s a ball of anxiety. “Lance likes to rile up his opponents. He’s got a good defense and I’ve watched him take brutal beatings while still managing to come out on top. Despite that, though, he’s flexible and when he gets his opening, he’s a force that has this crowd going wild.”

Lance wraps his hands in gauze, shirtless now and dressed in tight black leggings. A piece of advice, Keith and Shiro taught the others -- loose clothing can be used against you. Since then, this is how the man fights.

Winking over in Shiro and Allura’s direction, Lance shoots a finger gun. “Impressed, sweetheart?”

Allura rolls her eyes, words dry as sand. “Absolutely amazed.”

Which earns a snort from Shiro while Lance continues wearing that arrogant smirk that makes every opponent want to punch it off. “You will be.”

Putting in his earbuds, he closes himself off with his music and thoughts. Everyone lets him be while he stretches, warming up. Cassandra closes the betting tables and the first fighters enter the circle. Voltron settles in, zeroing in on the oncoming fight.

This is what they know.

_This is how we live_ , Shiro thinks as a fist lands its mark and sprays blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiro is officially back! With some anxiety that is very understandable. 
> 
> So, let me just explain a couple of things here. I've always loved the dynamic of Shiro and Allura as these badasses who are just really good friends. I didn't make her a fighter because as I've said before, there's a reason each of these characters fight. It just didn't seem fitting for her to do a fight club. 
> 
> Also, I didn't want there to be this whole issue of who was going to lead this crew. For reasons that will be explained, Shiro is more than content to stand back and let Keith take the reins. And Keith has grown to be very comfortable in his leadership position, thanks to Lance ;)
> 
> But how about Lance standing up to Allura? I never really shipped the two of them and the tags tell you who ends up with who, but I'm taking Lance's character in the direction that I feel is the most genuine of his character in this environment. I hope that you all enjoy it! 
> 
> Anyway, enough babbling here. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! There will be a fight next time so the action is coming! 
> 
> Comment and Kudos bring smiles to my face :D


	4. Something to Prove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance + Fighting = Amazing 
> 
> Shiro + Fighting = JASDHFKSD (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Paladins + Fighting = Supportive Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Shout out to TheGoblingKing111 and Red Lion! You're beautiful souls who make me smile! 
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!

Looking at the fighter with the headphones, people would assume he listens to some heavy bass or rap to pump himself up. The typical genre that most fighters pick when readying for a fight. They choose a song that gets their hearts pumping, that makes their muscles twitch with the need to move, and gives them a small taste of the adrenaline rush to come. However, the greatest secret about Lance McClain and his headphones is that nothing plays.

Not a single note of music plays in the small earbuds. Instead, it’s a muffled silence.

Lance closes his eyes, breathes, holds it, and focuses on the dulled sounds. In an instant, the young man finds himself floating in the ocean of his favorite beach. The self-doubt, anxiety, tension all drains from him in those moments. All that matters are the waters that engulf him, wrapping around him in an embrace that screams safe and secure.

He was born a boy of the ocean. Varadero beach was more than a fond childhood memory -- it was home.

It was his first breath of salt thick air and crisp ocean breezes that left his hair windblown. The ocean was his first love, floating beneath the blue-green waves that welcomed him with open arms and fed his desire for adventure. When the world became too much or when the voice inside his head became too loud, he’d run through the dated streets of his hometown to Varadero beach where the crashing of the waves against the shore drowned out the screaming in his head.

Home has been a distant memory, but Lance found it again in these small moments. These brief moments with his earbuds in, muffling the crowd around him, make his heart race and muscles antsy while adrenaline dances in his veins because the ocean has always been a force of nature that is unpredictable, and there’s no greater foe than Mother Nature and her wrath.

Stretching his legs and arms, he keeps his eyes closed, preserving the vision in his head of white foam and the burn in his lungs from holding his breath too long. Lance avoids thinking about Antok or the way his fists will ache and muscles will burn from exertion. He lets waves carry him far out into the depths of the sea, the ebb and flow of the water keeping that detrimental voice out of his head.

But then a heavy hand settles on his shoulder, ripping him out of the water like a bird snatching a fish. Dim lights and an excited crowd greet him as his eyes open, leaving the comforts of his memories. Lance tugs the earphones free before glancing to his left where Hunk stands with an easy grin, the sun in his eyes warming the chill that had settled over the fighter’s bare skin.

“Ready, buddy?”

“I was born ready, Hunk.” The two of them grin wide before Hunk squeezes his shoulder.

Lance jumps up and down a couple of times while he watches the final moments in the ring.

Blood flows in rivulets down one woman’s swollen eye. Her brow split and hindering her as she tries to defend her face from more damage. Fatigue slows her movements, but her opponent has their own injuries. A busted lip that a pink tongue continually runs over to wipe up the blood. He limps, favoring his left over his right which seems to be his dominant side. Both are at a disadvantage with their injuries -- sight obstructed by blood and favoring a non-dominant side.

Watching with rapt attention, the male fighter tries for the woman’s face. One, two, three jabs, one out of the two sneaking past her guard. She doesn’t go down. A combo -- low jab for the abdomen to get her to drop her defense than a jab at the unprotected face and then ending with a right hook.

The woman doesn’t drop her arms from her face with the hit to her gut and blocks the fist aimed for her face. With a quick move, she sidesteps the right hook and swings wide with a nasty haymaker. Her hit lands, knocking the man unbalanced, and it’s blood in the water.

Seconds later, the man taps and the woman jumps up with bruised fists raised high while the crowd roars.

Lance doesn’t cheer, though. It was a good fight from the small amount he saw, but at this moment, he’s not a spectator. He is a fighter with one thought -- _Win._

Keith sidles up to him, something Shiro used to do before he disappeared. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Voltron had been together for a couple of years by then, Lance wouldn’t have been as open to the advice as he was. Their dynamic changed. He won’t say it out loud, neither will Keith, but he likes that they don’t fight anymore.

“Ready to watch me outshine your ass, Mullet?” Lance antagonizes because maybe they don’t fight anymore, but that doesn’t mean Lance won’t rile the other up. They both have too much fun bantering and insulting the other.

“You mean, watch you get your ass handed to you? Then totally, McClain,” Keith retorts with a smirk.

Lance rolls his eyes. “Just watch, man.”

“I will be. So, be smart. You’re going to have to be ruthless. Do not give him an opportunity.”

The smile Lance wears, private and uncharacteristic, lasts for a brief moment while the two hold each other’s gazes. Then that smile falls into a tight-lipped line, all friendliness and warmth gone from ocean eyes. Now, they’re frigid -- jagged like glaciers.

Squaring his broad shoulders, back straight, Lance walks through the crowd to the center. Shiro frowns watching the typically goofy young man turn into this dark soldier. Lance used to showboat -- run into the ring with a big smile and rile the crowd up into a frenzy. They loved him.

The crowd does cheer louder as Lance enters the ring, but their demeanors show something different than the past. A lot of the crowd used to brush off Lance’s antics, assume he was a hyper adrenaline junkie. They passed judgment, placed their bets, and lost as a result. This new air, the way the people wear eager grins that hint at their need for bloodthirst, Shiro wonders how much has changed in his absence.

Antok slips in, a full head taller than Lance. His eyes lock onto Lance and stay there, focused on his target. Lance does the same, not a hint of that usual smirk as he positions himself.

Fights start when the fighters want. No bell. No countdown. Whoever lunges first starts the fight. It means a fighter must stay on their toes the moment they enter because some people don’t stop once they’ve stepped in, walking straight to their opponent to deliver a vicious blow.

Lance and Antok move in a circle, keeping each other in their line of sights at all times. Shiro’s hands form tight fists while his heart pounds. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he notices the other members of Voltron are as tense as him.

Pidge grips her knees, those large hazel eyes flitting over the two bodies with an intensity that makes Shiro shudder. Similar to a predator, she searches for weaknesses -- something to exploit in order to win. At the end of the fight, however it turns out, Pidge will deliver her findings in a bluntness that many would find offensive. She doesn’t mean to be insensitive. The young woman believes in fact, and at her age still learning how to have a little tact. Shiro admires it, though. Talking with Pidge means you’ll get the honest truth without her beating around the bush.

Hunk leans against the wall with his arms crossed. He looks undeterred by the fight, but the way his fingers bounce on his biceps and the tapping of his foot, tell another story. Every time Lance gets in the ring, Hunk gets anxious. Any time any of them fight, Hunk worries. However, it differs when the Cuban man steps in.

Lastly, Keith stands with arms over his chest and a deep scowl. Shiro knows that anxiety eats at the fighter. Unlike Hunk, Keith internalizes all of his concerns instead of expressing them. The only tell that the man is on edge comes from his eyes. Keith doesn’t believe it, but the man can be read like a book.

Shiro takes another second to gauge his friends before turning his attention back to the ring where fists and kicks are thrown.

Lance side steps Antok, dropping to deliver a hit to exposed ribs. He flinches, sweeping his leg to take out Lance’s, but he jumps back. The crowd yells their encouragements, no matter how violent. Their combined voices boom in the small space, deafening and drowning out the grunts of the fighters. Long legs sweep at even longer ones, dropping Antok, but the man twists landing on his hands. A snapback of his leg catches Lance in the gut which sends the fighter back into the crowd.

They shove him forward with no remorse. Lance stumbles, blue eyes widening before he falls back to avoid the nasty hook. He lets momentum take him, landing on his back, but not without launching his feet at his attacker. The hit lands square in Antok’s gut, forcing him back while he clutches his abdomen. Sweat drips from their brows, coating both men’s bare chests and plastering their hair to their foreheads as they continue dodging one another’s attacks. Too bad the dance can’t last forever.

One second the two are standing and the next they are on the mat, grappling with desperate hands to get a hold. Lance grits his teeth fighting to avoid Antok’s killer holds, but his next block fails. Pain blossoms across the right side of his face. Stunned in the middle of a critical moment, Lance can’t stop the arms that wrap around his head. Flat on his back with Antok lying on his chest, the man pulls him into a headlock and Lance nearly panics.

He can’t lose this fight. It’s not for the money or bragging rights. Part of it is, but not all of it. No, Lance needs this win because he wants to make Keith proud, to show Shiro how much he grew in the last year, and to prove to Allura that they are to never be underestimated.

So, he lets muscle memory move his arms. Long fingers wind into shortcut hair with a vice grip as he tugs back harsh. Antok’s head snaps back, a sharp grunt escapes him while Lance swings his body out from underneath, plants his feet on the vinyl mat and pushes forward. He forces Antok to his side, head free, and now has the upper hand. Mercilessly, Lance rains blow after blow down on the man’s face, hammering with his fist and elbow until Antok’s defending hand falls limp to the mat.

Chest burning with ragged breaths, Lance stumbles back and waits. Antok doesn’t move, though, and the crowd roars. Blood coats his hand wraps from the busted nose of the other fighter. A grin pulls at his lips, not caring about the pain that comes with the action. Every muscle in his body protests, but adrenaline dulls it, and he raises a fist in victory. It stirs the crowd into a frenzy of excitement that makes Lance’s chest swell.

Antok starts to move on the ground, slow and uncoordinated. The Blades are nearby, Lance knows, but it doesn’t stop him from going over to his opponent. Squatting down, he grabs the injured fighter’s hand and helps him into a sitting position, maintaining a steady hand on his shoulder.

“You good?” Lance asks, still breathless from the fight.

Antok’s mouth and nose are coated in blood while his right eye begins to swell. Despite that, the man grins with bloodied teeth. “You have learned some new moves, I see.”

Lance laughs. “Maybe,” he teases, “or I was just holding back.”

Antok snorts, gagging in reaction. Lance pats his back before getting a good grip under the man’s arms. “Let’s get you back to your buddies, huh?”

Nodding, Antok lets Lance guide him out of the crowd on weak legs and to the corner where he knows the Blades reside. Kolivan stands in front of the others with Thace on his right and Ulaz on his left. The two grab Antok from Lance, seating him on the hard concrete floor as they start to clean him up. While Thace and Ulaz help Antok, Regris steps up next to Kolivan. Lance keeps his shoulders back, and chin up.

The Blades are an intimidating crew. They’re bigger than everybody in height. All five guys are six foot or taller and each of them varies in body structure. Kolivan has wide shoulders meant for a linebacker. Thace has a similar build, but not nearly as large. Ulaz is tall, however, his figure falls more on the lithe side. His body deceives many fighters until they are on the receiving end of a hit. The guy may look like nothing, but he’s ripped with muscles. Then Regris who has a simple build; broad shoulders and thin waist. Again, he doesn’t look like much until his shirt comes off. Lance won’t hesitate to admit that the guy shirtless can be distracting.

“You’ve been training with Keith,” Kolivan states in greeting.

Unsurprised by the statement, Lance nods. “It kills me to admit, but the guy is a good fighter.”

Kolivan nods. A hint of pride shows in the slight curl of his lips. Amusement tinges his typically commanding voice. “I’ll have to put my men through basic training. Don’t expect that move to work again.”

Lance smiles wide, thriving on the tease of a harder competition. “Bring it. I’ll take whatever you guys throw my way.”

“I’ll hold you to that, McClain.”

With that Kolivan turns his back. Lance takes his leave too, weaving through the crowd until he reaches his crew. Hunk greets him with a gentle hug, minding any injuries he may have. Then he grips Lance by the arms and shakes him with a fat smile.

“Dude, that was awesome! You kicked ass in there!”

“Damn right, I did! I’m Lance-badass-McClain!” He boasts, puffing out his chest as he flexes and shoots finger guns Hunk’s way. His buddy snickers, clapping his shoulders as he releases him.

The others greet him with smiles. Pidge bumps fists before diving into a whole breakdown of his fight. Lance grins, knowing that she does it to get her anxieties off her chest.

She never likes watching, he learned one late night when the two were walking home. It makes her feel helpless because she can’t join in -- can’t protect them. He ruffled her hair, something that Pidge hates, and joked about how amazing he was. Anything to get the terrified look out of her eyes. So, in order to cope with that fear, she brings up everything that went wrong. Explains where they could have won the fight sooner or a weakness in their opponent, they can exploit next time.

He listens half-heartedly, grinning and waving off her observations like always. Either way, he’ll hear it again from Keith when they train next time.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Now, talk about how awesome I was,” he jokes, smile growing when she rolls her eyes with a huff.

“I’m not boosting you’re already inflated ego.”

Batting his eyelashes, he leans on the crate with a flirtatious smirk. “Just admit, Pidgeon, you love me.”

Pidge fixes him with the driest look possible and deadpans, “I think I threw up a little in my mouth.”

“I think we all did,” Keith adds with a teasing glint in his indigo eyes. “Nice move there at the end.”

Lance straightens, that joking front slipping enough to show pride and a softer side of the jokester. It shows in the way his smile grows easy, more natural on his thin lips while his eyes lose that flirtatious gleam to give way to the skin wrinkling around the edges in genuineness.  

“Well, I did have a good teacher.”

Keith smiles, soft and private before Shiro steps up to Lance. He grips the younger man’s shoulder with his flesh hand. The weight relaxes the fighter, Shiro’s pleased expression only making Lance preen.

“Wow, man. I’m impressed how much you’ve grown. You always had it in you and seeing you pull off those moves...well,” he chuckles, “I can see why the crowd is more in awe of you.”

“I do aim to please my fans. Can’t leave them disappointed,” Lance comments, back again with the cocky smirk and hooded eyes. Shiro lets him, knowing his words meant a lot.

Lance leans around Shiro to look at Allura. She stands nearby but away enough to not be a part of the interaction. He meant it when he accepted her apology from earlier. Typically, the man will forgive and forget, but when it comes to his crew, this mismatched group of people he calls family, well, just because he forgives doesn’t mean he can’t rub it in a little.

“So, _princess,_ think we’re good enough to watch your boy?”

Shiro shoves his shoulder, gentle but sending the warning all the same -- _ease up, man._

Allura flushes with embarrassment yet manages to maintain her stoic composure. Her shoulders remain pulled back, chin held high, and arms crossed. Clearing her throat, she meets the intense ocean gaze of the man. She was never one to back down in the face of her mistakes. A lesson her father taught her -- _always own up to your mistakes for they will help you grow and show others the quality of your character._

“I’d much rather answer that question with a spar of our own, but, yes, I believe after watching you fight, you have the skill.”

Waggling his eyebrows, Lance turns on the charm. “Oh, sweetheart, we can spar anytime and anywhere.”

A collective groan sounds from the others, Pidge fake gagging. He winks at Allura and Shiro thumps him on the back of his head, a fond but exasperated look on his scarred face.

“All right, who’s up next?” he questions to get the others back on track.

The next fight has just begun, the crowd more subdued compared to when Lance was in the ring. Still, their cheers boom in the enclosed space -- obnoxiously loud like a bar that doesn’t know volume control.

Pidge pushes her round glasses up her nose before fixing him with a pointed look. “You are.”

He knew it was coming. Was well aware that his name was written in black marker on the board. Yet, Pidge’s simple statement catches him off guard for a second because this is happening. Nearly a year later, a recovery time that should have taken _years_ , but he managed in ten months, blowing away his doctors, Shiro can finally get back in the fight. That surge of adrenaline, the thrill of the way he bobs and weaves out of attacks, it’s all a matter of minutes before it’s real and no longer a dream.

The others watch him with a close eye. Gauging his headspace, ready to step in if they have to, but Shiro’s lips pull wide, childlike excitement radiating from him. They relax, smirks of their own framing their faces.

Watching Shiro fight leaves them all wonderstruck. His skill exceeds the best of the underground fighting ring. That title, Champion, was not bestowed on a whim because when you watch the man fight, you can’t help but think of gladiators fighting for survival. Beautiful, raw, and vicious -- a combination that people drool for.  

“Who am I fighting?”

“Rolo,” Pidge answers.

“Does he have any new moves since I’ve been gone or same style?” Shiro prods while beginning to stretch. His muscles and joints loosen with the movements -- pulling his knee to his chest, lunging with a twist, and another twist but focusing on stretching the hip.

“No, he’s still sly. Tricky to read and an overall pain in the ass.”

Shiro hums in response, already planning an attack to counter Rolo’s nature while the others talk about his opponent.

“That’s being nice about it, Pidge,” Hunk mutters, arms crossed over his chest with a scowl.

With a knowing grin, the younger fighter rests her chin in her hand, ribbing her friend. “Or maybe you have a grudge and find my insult insufficient.”

Hunk doesn’t deny her comment. He does have a grudge against the leader of the Bandits. The guy manipulates and uses people. His girlfriend, Nyma, is the exact same -- a perfect match in Hunk’s opinion. It wouldn’t bother him if it wasn’t for the fact that the two used Lance.

They buddied up to him, convinced him to try his luck at another fighting ring. Only issue, the two rigged the fight in order to make money to pay off the guy running that ring. He warned Lance that those two were trouble, but of course, he didn’t listen. As a result, he got an unwelcome, anxiety inducing phone call at three in the morning from a barely conscious Lance. Luckily, his best friend managed to tell him where he was because otherwise Hunk never would have found him. That fact still haunts Hunk.

When he got to Lance, he nearly threw up on the spot. It took every ounce of self-control to swallow it back and help his friend. Lance was black and blue with a swollen eye and split brow. Half of his face had been coated in blood. After removing his bloodied and sweat soaked clothes, he found a hideous series of mottled skin that made Hunk’s own ribs ache. Three weeks of recovery before Lance could get back in a ring. Which also meant three long weeks of Lance blaming himself and hating himself for falling into their lies.

Yet, despite all of that, Lance still maintains a friendly air whenever he sees them. Hunk wishes that his friend could be that forgiving with himself.

“Pidge, to be fair, ‘pain in the ass’ is a little PG for you,” Lance mentions, earning him a groan from Shiro.

“Don’t encourage her. Her vocabulary is colorful enough as is.”

Lance rolls his eyes, cocking his hip as he leans against the crate. “Don’t be such a Dad, Shiro. You’re six going on seven.”

A long-suffering sigh escapes the fighter, regretting the day he told them all that his birthday fell on Leap day. “Well in that case, you should watch your language. You’re not supposed to swear in front of children.”

Shiro’s retort earns him a collective snort before they all fall into silence. Around them, the crowd yells their encouragements of violence. The air grows heavier with the accumulated bodies, but instead of bothering the fighters, it only soothes them. This basement with the terrible lighting and musky smells and the too loud crowd has become their home away from home.

Finishing a few squats, Shiro rolls his neck, unsurprised when a familiar presence appears at his side. He looks down at Keith to find the other man focusing on the current fight in the ring. The thing with Keith, Shiro has come to discover, is that he needs a few moments to get his words out. So, Shiro continues to warm up, peeking over at Keith every so often until the man speaks up.

“I know that you went through some shit. It’s fine if you’re not ready to talk about it with us. Take all the time you need. Just…” He sighs, his jet-black bangs getting caught up in the exhaled breath. “If it gets to be too much, know that you can tap. Nobody will think differently of you, and if they do, we’ll take care of it.”

Those indigo eyes meet his, Shiro breathless at the sincerity and devotion. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve that look.

Shiro left. Abandoned the crew for a year with no real explanation. The only reason he gave them one in the first place was because he got tired of ignoring the insane amounts of messages flooding his phone.

Keith watches with the kind of intensity that makes people fidget. Shiro doesn’t. He holds that gaze, speechless, but hoping that Keith can understood how much those words strike him. Reaching up, he grips Shiro’s shoulder, like the million times he has done the same for him, and squeezes. It’s his right arm, the one that cuts off at the bicep and then forms into a carbon fiber limb. Tears prick his eyes, and he draws in a deep breath to push the emotion back.

“Thanks, Keith.”

A gentle curl of his lips and then he pulls away, crossing his arms and nodding towards the ring. “Kick his ass.”

Shiro laughs in genuine, the sound getting drowned out a moment later when the fight ends. Excitement makes his stomach clench while his limbs tingle with anticipation. One more deep breath, forcing his uncertainties to the back of his mind, he pulls his jean jacket off. Even after months of adjustment, when he looks down and finds the false limb instead of flesh, it stuns him. But, Shiro has practiced schooling his features and gives nothing away as he folds the clothing and sets it on the crate by Pidge.

Typically, he fights shirtless. After what happened, though, he refuses. Allura reminds him over and over that no one will care about the scars, but he does. People will look at him with pity, something Shiro can’t stand. That or they’ll look away like he is some grotesque thing to be shunned. Every day he tries to be more accepting of it, however, some wounds take longer to heal.

Most likely sensing his anxieties, Allura nudges him. Sometimes he thinks that she knows him better than he knows himself.

Her warmth soothes that live wire that lives under his skin. “You can do this, Shiro,” she encourages, but her gaze speaks of more, reminding him that he made it this far; that survival, fighting, and patience are the key components of who he is.

The ring has cleared out and Shiro knows that the moment has arrived. Squaring his shoulders, he moves towards the crowd. They part like the ocean with awed whispers trailing after him. He ignores the intense stares that bore into him, knowing that they are cataloguing the white shock of hair, the pink scar over his nose, and the bionic limb.

Rolo stands opposite him, exactly as Shiro remembers. They are the same height and both broad shouldered. Except Shiro is burly and Rolo has a slighter athletic frame. His bleach blonde hair hangs in his face with a chin of scruff. A few scars mar his defined biceps, and the lack of shirt has Shiro hoping his will be tight enough to prevent any dirty moves.

Dark eyes scour over him, but instead of analytical, they rake over him in judgement. He readies his fighting stance, ignoring the nervous thump of his heart.

_Please don’t take this from me. I need this._

Rolo doesn’t move so Shiro decides to make the first attack. His legs move, using his agility, and readies for an impromptu block from Rolo and a counter. The slap of Rolo’s hand against the mat shocks Shiro. He stumbles to a stop a few steps away from the other fighter who now stands with his arms crossed and a disgusted look.

“I tap.”

His heartbeat pounds so hard he doesn’t even realize the crowd has gone deadly silent. The panicked thumping of his heart fills his head like a bass drum. This was what he feared.

“What?” Lance’s shrill voice cuts through the thick silence. It makes Shiro’s spine straighten with terror. Lance and Keith flank him suddenly and he knows Hunk and Pidge are right behind him, protecting him and glaring down the crowd.

“You lose your spine, Rolo? Too afraid to go against the Champion and get your ass handed to you in front of your girlfriend?”

A comforting hand finds his flesh one and he glances down to see Allura there. Lacing his fingers with hers, he squeezes, trying desperately to swallow down the impending anxiety attack.

“Fuck you, McClain. I don’t fight cheaters. How the hell he was allowed in here is beyond me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Keith spits, taking a step forward. In his peripheral, Shiro notes the dyed red-orange hair of Griffin.

A whole new wave of panic crashes over him, attention flickering between Keith and Lance. They can’t snap and attack. The Unilu are not forgiving and Shiro doesn’t want them to lose their place here. It would suck, probably destroy him, but he would never want that for his team. He’ll make the sacrifice before taking that from them.

Rolo gestures at Shiro, pointing at his bionic arm. “That. He’s got a metal limb. One fucking hit with his strength, it’s an unfair advantage.”

“Fine. He wraps it,” Pidge reasons with heat in her voice. “People wrap their hands all the time. It wouldn’t be any different for him.”

“How do we know that?” Rolo snaps. “Looks pretty advanced for a prosthetic. Maybe he’s stronger as a result. Plus, you’re not accounting for an elbow attack.”

“For fuck’s sake Rolo, you want pads and a helmet too? This is an underground fighting ring. People fuck you up and you get fucked up. I don’t see a damn problem here. All I see is you being a coward.”

Crossing his arms and widening his stance, Rolo doesn’t back down. He maintains his stare down with Voltron, turning his words to the crowd. “I have a fucking point and you all know it. The Champion can’t fight in this ring. We all follow the rules. He’s no exception.”

Shiro tries to swallow and barely manages to not choke on his saliva. _Why? Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhy?_

“I agree with the little one of Voltron.” Kolivan pushes to the front of the crowd. His long white braid hangs down his shoulder, the blank look unsettling. “Shiro wraps his prosthetic before a fight. Then it is even.”

A chorus of agreeance rings out around him, shocking the fighter. A few, but not the majority, side with Rolo.

Rolo narrows his gaze, fuming with the crowd. He opens his mouth to speak, but Coran’s voice silences him.

“It seems that majority has spoken. He was let in with the prosthetic. If it was considered a weapon then he wouldn’t have made it down those stairs. So, it seems to me, Rolo, that you have tapped out before giving the fight a chance.”

All heads are turned towards the red headed man. Shiro can’t see him over the crowd. He decides that even though he can’t see Coran’s face, his voice alone sends fear coursing through his body. That is a man Shiro never wants to cross.

“Which means,” he continues, “A fight is still needed. Does anyone dare to take Rolo’s spot and go up against the returning Champion?”

Shiro closes his eyes, gritting his teeth in the sudden silence.

_It’s over._

“I will.”

His eyes snap open to meet challenging indigo ones. Keith smirks, cocky and full of a fire that Shiro has missed.

“I’ll fight the Champion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry that this took two weeks! Life and an issue with motivation had me struggling with the chapter I was writing. BUT HOLY COW I CANNOT WAIT FOR YOU TO ALL READ IT!! lol sorry to tease! 
> 
> Now, let's talk business! This opening for Lance was my favorite thing to write. I love this boy to death and as I've said previously, I want to give him the journey that he deserved. My version will be darker, but there is a reason. He isn't a goofball. He had to change and that will be explained later, but YES, HE KICKED BUTT!! 
> 
> Shiro, my dear sweet boy, why must you go through so much? It's all good though because we are getting an awesome fight next chapter between the two leaders of Voltron. As I said previously, I didn't want a power struggle between the two. However, I loved that fight between them in the show and thought it was only fair to pay homage to it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads, comments, and kudos! Your support means everything! 
> 
> See you next time!


	5. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith + Shiro + Fighting = Awesomeness
> 
> Shiro + Crew = Feels
> 
> Allura + Shiro = Best Friendship Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the wait! Shoutout to all the amazing kudos, Red+lion, TheGoblinKing111, and Espy_Ninja for your beautiful comments! 
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!!

The crowd stands silent while the two fighters stare down. Obsidian eyes look on in surprise while indigo blue ones burn with a challenging glint. Keith raises an eyebrow in question, arms crossed over his chest, and Shiro finally reacts. A smirk tugs at his lips while he rolls his shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to take me, Red?”

He snorts, his own teasing smirk in place. “I can take you, old man.”

The crowd responds with a low ‘ohh’ that draws a smile out of Shiro. Any tension that came from before drains away while excitement takes over. It has been a couple of years since the two of them have had a legitimate fight, taking him back to a time where they were both lost men searching for meaning in bloodied fists.

“All right!” Lance shouts, bouncing on his feet. “My money is on Shiro!”

“Hey!” Keith says, failing to hide a ghost of a smile.

Joy dances in those dark eyes, and Shiro knows that he could care less about who wins. This fight isn’t about money or honor or anything of the sorts. No, it’s about proving that they belong here. It’s reminding themselves of why they do this.

Like blood in the water, the crowd begins to make fresh bets. Hunk claps him on the shoulder with an amused smile while Pidge shakes her head at the two of them. “I can’t believe you’re going to fight a child, Keith.”

Shiro groans. Keith snorts.

Lance grabs Hunk and Pidge ushering them out of the makeshift circle. “Okay, okay, enough. It’s time for a fight!”

Those words excite the crowd, gearing them up as their voices drown out any doubts that lingered in Shiro. He belongs here. A cybernetic prosthetic, new scars, none of that changes whether or not he’s a good fighter. Being in this ring can only prove that.

Allura catches him by the arm. They share a quick and heartfelt look. Her crystal blue gaze reminds him that she trusts him, that no matter what happens she will be by his side. His mouth curves into a brief smile before she lets go and disappears into the mass of people, leaving him and Keith alone.

At some point, Keith removed his shirt, tossing the article aside. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone in the crowd had stolen it as a souvenir. Fans are fans after all, even in an illegal fighting ring.

Shiro takes a quick second to look over his friend. A year has changed the man in front of him. Broader shoulders with a leanly muscled frame and those jet-black strands pulled back in a quick ponytail at the base of his neck. Cracking his knuckles, Keith falls into his fighting stance, a hidden grin framing his lips.

Rolling his shoulders, knowing how it shows off the bulge of muscle, Shiro settles into his stance. He wears a wide smile that borders on menacing.

“Last chance to back out, kiddo.”

Again, Keith rolls his eyes, “Shut up-”

Keith’s words cut off as he drops and rolls away from Shiro’s sudden attack. He should’ve known better than to let himself get comfortable like that. Shiro is the Champion for a reason.

Arms up, he blocks his fist as he gets to a knee, swiping at Shiro’s legs. Jumping back, Keith gets a quick breath to readjust before Shiro launches at him once more.

_Fast._ The two of them move lightning quick, steps sure as they bob and weave to dodge the other’s attacks. When hits land, smirks are shared while grunts are drowned out by the thunderous crowd. Voltron’s leaders are equally matched fighters. It leaves for an entertaining fight with lots of surprises as Keith twists out of Shiro’s hold to land a swift kick to his side.

Pain blossoms across the area, Shiro’s face twisting, but he forces himself to not curl into the injury. Show no weakness. Don’t let your enemy know what hurts or else you’re done for. They’ll exploit that weakness. So, Shiro ignores the sharp ache, gritting his teeth while dodging Keith’s fist.

Swinging his arm up and then down, he pins Keith’s arm to his side, yanking the fighter close as Shiro hits him with a fierce uppercut.

The big brother side of him, which is buried currently under survival instincts, feels bad for the hit. However, this brutality they share in the ring brought them together initially. To go easy on him wouldn’t be fair. They know the stakes, and at the end of this night, no grudges will be held. Bloodied smirks and playful nudges will be shared with promises of next time.

Keith falls, managing to roll over his shoulder and to his feet to the surprise of the crowd. A dribble of blood falls from his lip. Unperturbed, he runs at Shiro with a hoarse yell. Jabs and kicks -- limbs fly while both fighters remain relentless in their fight for victory. Leg sweeping out, Shiro loses his balance, twisting at the last second to land on his outstretched hands. Not quick enough, though, to prepare for Keith to topple on top of him and try to pin him in a chokehold.

Forearm pressing into his throat, Keith has the leverage at the moment with Shiro on the ground to make passing out a real threat soon.

_Sorry, buddy._

Shiro thanks Allura for her daily workout regime, no matter how much he hated it at the time. Swinging his legs up, he latches around Keith’s head and pulls. The fighter topples over on top of Shiro in a mess of limbs, but he’s prepared. Grabbing a flying leg, he twists the limb just enough to cause discomfort as he plants a foot under Keith’s chin.

“Yield,” Shiro grunts, maintaining an unwavering grip.

Keith grimaces, teeth grinding against the strain in his leg and the way his throat constricts with the force of Shiro’s foot pressed against it. The crowd holds their breaths for a brief moment, just long enough for Keith to release a defeated sigh and slap his hand on the mat. It rings out in the silence before the place erupts in a roar of energy.

Releasing the younger fighter, Shiro hurries to his feet and extends a hand down to his counterpart. A giddy smile frames his sweaty face, chest heaving in the aftermath. Faint bruising shows around his arm and face. Later tonight when he readies for bed, he knows he’ll find mottled skin hiding under his tight top.

Keith lets Shiro pull him to his feet, a faint grimace hidden behind the glee. Red stains his teeth from the split lip. It paints his chin, and he wipes the back of his hand to clear it.

The two don’t release, hands gripped tight. Then Keith pulls Shiro into a tight embrace, heart still pumping with the adrenaline of the fight.

“I’m glad your back.”

Shiro swallows around the lump in his throat. Voice breathless, he tucks his head against Keith’s with a wobbly smile. “It’s good to be back.”

And it is. Feeling that adrenaline, remembering the pain of a good hit and taking one, it reminded Shiro what it means to be alive. His life, every aspect of it, deviates from the norm. People don’t see this as fun or healthy. They don’t understand nor will they. For Shiro, though, he can live with that. This is his life and he’s so glad to be back where he belongs.

A sharp whistle cuts through the noise of the crowd. Shiro and Keith pull apart wearing matching grimaces with the crowd at the sudden sound.

Parting, the sea of people shifts to allow the man of the Castle of Lions through. Coran wears a wide smile, his mustache trimmed to perfection as it frames the upturn of his mouth. All fall silent when he steps into the ring.

Instinctually, Shiro stands at attention. The man’s presence brings back years of training that he cannot undo. With hands behind his back and head held high, Coran addresses the audience.

“It seems to me that was a fair fight. Would you all not agree?”

Together the crowd answers as one. “Yes.”

Pursing his lips, Coran nods, walking the ring. “Then can we also agree that Shiro of the Voltron crew does not have an advantage due to his situation?”

Shiro expects hesitation. Instead, like before, the answer is unanimous and instant. “Yes!”

Seemingly pleased, Coran twists a side of his mustache and heads back through the crowd to his usual spot by the stairs. “Good! Now let’s forget this nonsense and get back to why we are here!”

Claps and cheers sound and Shiro and Keith take their leave to allow the next fighters in. A few people clap Shiro on the back as he passes, the relief in his chest almost suffocating. He’s grateful to his team and Coran and everybody involved here. Keith bumps his shoulder, a challenging gleam in those dark eyes.

“You won this time, but I’m getting you next time.”

“I can’t wait.”

* * *

 

The creak of the door sounds along with the bell hanging above the door. Voltron waves goodbye to Iverson as they file out of the Galaxy Garrison, heading home for the night finally. It’s close to dawn, Shiro muffling a yawn behind a bruised fist. Hunger sated; the fights of the night have caught up to each of them. Aches throb now after a long rest, begging for ice and painkillers and several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Allura nudges him with a teasing smile as they walk, following behind the others, who listen to Lance boast about the achievements of his younger niece and nephew.

“Tired already, Captain?”

Shiro rolls his eyes. For once, he really is tired, though. Sleep and he have had a rough relationship. A good night gives him a blessed four hours. Bad nights, he may find several half-hour cat naps before being abruptly awoken by the terrors of his mind. But, Shiro knows tonight will be a soundless sleep.

Fighting wears him out in a way that nothing else does. Maybe the adrenaline has something to do with it or the fact that it takes everything -- mind, body, and soul -- to fight and win. Either way, tonight will not be full of tossing and turning and cold sweats.

They reach an intersection, the streetlights flashing from red to green and the others begin to slow down. Shiro recognizes the buildings, knowing that this is one of two stops along the way home. Pidge squeezes Hunk in a tight embrace before attacking Keith, who’s caught off guard by the affection. He wraps his arms around her in a tender hug, smiling at whatever Pidge mutters in his ear. Under the yellow glow of the street light, Keith’s bruises look worse than they are -- his jaw mottled in purples and blues. Tomorrow will be worse.

Shiro’s own aches flare-up in sympathy. A quick trip to the bathroom at the restaurant revealed his own discolored injuries. When he wakes, he’ll be stiff and covered in a patchwork of bruises that will take time to fade.

Lance and Hunk hug, the bigger of the two minding the injuries of the other. They all mask their pain well, a skill they developed in order to overcome their enemies in the ring. However, Lance hides it too well. It can be easy to miss the slight hunch to his back and the tight lines around his eyes. Pidge steps away from Keith with a scheming look that spells trouble for the fighter. He only rolls his eyes at her before a soft smile frames his face as Lance stands in front of him.

“Good fight tonight,” Keith praises which earns him a cocky grin.

Lance pushes his brown locks back, the strands falling back in place as he shoots Keith finger guns. Keith rolls his eyes, but can’t hide the fondness in his gaze.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Nodding, Keith and Lance fist bump before Pidge latches onto Lance’s arm and drags him towards Shiro and Allura. Shiro breathes a laugh as the youngest fighter launches herself at him. He catches her, returning the fierce embrace.

“I’m so glad your back,” she murmurs against his chest.

“Me too.”

Pulling away from each other, she punches him in the shoulder. Shiro grimaces, clutching at his limb, looking down in confusion at his friend.

“Don’t fucking disappear again like that, asshole!”

He smirks, pulling her into another hug. His chest swells with affection as he glances over Pidge’s head to see the rest of his crew.

They meet his gaze with loyalty. Two years ago, when they all came together, he never imagined this. Family before Voltron was his brothers and sisters in arms. It was Allura then it was Matt Holt. Then came Keith and finally the others. One night turned into every night which turned into swapping numbers and checking in. Shiro doesn’t know when Voltron became everything, and the war he was fighting became nothing. All he knows is that standing here with his crew, he is right where he belongs.

So, he releases Pidge, ruffles her hair, and takes the stinging slap that burns his hand.

“I’ll do my best, but I don’t plan on going anywhere any time soon, Pidge.”

“Good,” she huffs, although relief loosens the tight set of her shoulders and comforts the worry that burned in her hazel eyes.

He says his goodbye to Lance next, clapping the man on the back with more praise on his performance tonight. Lance’s grin spreads wide across his face, preening with the compliments.

The two fighters say their goodbyes to Allura. It’s brief but cordial. Shiro knows that it will take time for the others to come around after the incident earlier in the night. They forgive, however, forgetting isn’t as easy.

With a final wave, the two look both ways before racing across the intersection and down the street. Once the two figures are out of sight, the four carry on down the sidewalk in companionable silence. The streetlights bask the path in their sickly yellow light, coloring the brick buildings in an off color. It’s close to dawn, leaving the city in a strange atmosphere. Too early for the early-risers and too late for the party-goers. Absent is the hum of cars in the distance. For them, the only sound that fills the quiet comes from their steady gait on the concrete.  

“Do Lance and Pidge live together?” Allura asks to break the quiet.

“No.” Hunk shakes his head, explaining, “They don’t live anywhere near each other, honestly. But, none of us like Pidge walking by herself. We all try to use the buddy system on the way home.”

“I see. Do you all take turns walking her home then?”

Again, Hunk shakes his head. “Only Lance unless he has somewhere to be in the morning.”

“Why?”

“Lance is protective of Pidge,” Keith answers, shrugging his shoulders as though that should be enough.

It’s not for Allura, and Shiro knows that. He puts a soothing hand on her shoulder and adds. “Pidge and Lance have a history. He sees her as a little sister, and if there’s anything you should know about Lance, is that you don’t cross his family.”

Allura hums in understanding. The explanation doesn’t satisfy her, but she’ll take it for now.

Several blocks later and Hunk stretches his arms up above his head to release a loud yawn. “Well, guys, this is our stop.”

Unlike the others, Hunk gives Allura a hug. Keith nods in goodbye, which Shiro considers a win after the tense first meeting between them.

Shiro welcomes Hunk’s breathtaking hug. It pushes all of the air from his lungs, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Memories of his Grandmother come forth, remembering age-spotted arms and the sweet smell of ginger and the sharp bite of star anise. With Hunk, though, the man reeks of allspice and clove, a hint of longing filling his chest for fall evenings with smoky bonfires. He savors the hold a moment more before they clap each other on the back and step away.

“Man, it was great seeing you in the ring tonight. Even if you kicked Keith’s ass,” Hunk teases which earns him a playful shove from Keith.

“He definitely gave me a run for my money. Kolivan’s taught you a lot.”

Keith shrugs. “You taught me a lot too.”

“Not everything,” Shiro grins. Holding his friend’s gaze, a long-ago promise there in those dark depths.

The two clasp hands and pull one another in for a hug that lasts for a second longer than the others of the evening.

Keith’s lip has now scabbed over, a sharp contrast on his pale features. Still, he smiles wide, squeezing his shoulder in a final farewell. “Rest up, Shiro. Now that you’re back, people are going to be lining up to try and kick your ass.”

“Does that include you?”

Hunk’s already heading around the corner, Keith follows as he walks backward. “You know it.”

Disappearing around the corner, Shiro and Allura walk another few blocks before taking a right. The black sky begins to change colors. A muted pale blue starts to creep up on the skyline between the tall apartment buildings. While they walk, their surroundings change from graffiti-tagged buildings and trash-filled alleyways to polished windows and trimmed landscaping.

A sharp contrast to the neighborhoods they spent their evening in. For a while, Shiro has wondered where the others are located. He knows the irony in that thought. They consider one another family, yet neither of them have been to each other’s places. Well, Shiro has never been. Keith and Hunk are roommates now, which was a new development before Shiro went off the radar. Shiro’s been to Pidge’s place, but that’s because of Matt. Then there’s Lance, who rarely talks about himself for somebody as outspoken as him.

“What did you think?” Shiro asks once he passes his and Allura’s favorite coffee shop. After they walk through the doors of his apartment, he’s making a beeline for his bed and clocking out for several hours.

Allura’s stride matches his - right, left, right, left in perfect harmony. Her hands are hidden in the pockets of her leather jacket, pink lips pursed. She lets the silence carry while gathering her thoughts and Shiro lets her.

He stares up at the fading stars, waiting for the largest of them to take over the sky and shine the brightest.

“I think...I think that I haven’t seen you this comfortable in your skin for a long time.”

That crystalline gaze catches his, and for the dozenth time tonight, Shiro gets choked up at the affection he receives. His lips curl upwards, turning his attention back to the steadily brightening sky.

“I felt good.”

“Keith seems very invested in you.”

Shiro laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You could say that.”

Allura raises a brow, wanting a better explanation, but Shiro’s thinking back to four years ago when he stepped into a blood-stained ring and stood across a young man with messy jet-black hair and eyes hard enough to cut like the sharpest blade in the world. Keith wasn’t much younger than him, but the way his bones stood out in prominence had him looking closer to a teenager than an adult.

Scrubbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand, Shiro releases a long breath. “I’ve been doing these fights for a while now, but they weren’t always at the Castle of Lions. Some places were...bad, to say the least. The place where we met, you had to be careful. Fights were rigged. Leaving you had to be careful that somebody didn’t retaliate and jump you. You didn’t pick your opponent. Someone stepped in the ring and that’s who you fought. When Keith stood across from me, I thought he was a kid.”

Allura gives him a sharp look in which Shiro grimaces. He didn’t know that Keith was an adult during that fight. Meaning, yes, Shiro would have fought a kid. During that time, though, age didn’t matter. All he cared about was feeding that desperate need for control when his world was spinning.

“It was a hard fight. I didn’t win easily, but I still won. Keith didn’t stick around after the loss, but...I don’t know.” A heavy breath leaves him before he pinches the bridge of his scarred nose. “I think afterward, what I did had caught up to me, but at the time, I was just impressed by his skill. So, I followed him after he left.”

Allura doesn’t interrupt, listening with rapt attention as they head home. They’re close and even as they get caught up in the story, muscle memory carries them to the right building.

Smirking at the memory, Shiro continues. “I was stupid. I didn’t think to call out, and after following him for about a block, he stopped and I found myself pinned against the wall with a knife to my throat.”

_“Why are you following me?” the raven-haired man snarls. “What? Didn’t get what you wanted in the ring? Need to make sure I can’t fucking walk?”_

_Ferocious. Violent. Those are the words that come to mind as Shiro stares down at the kid. The red hoodie hangs loose on his battered frame. Many of the injuries decorating his skin came from Shiro’s hands, but there were others before that he noticed. Bruises and cuts that spoke of old fights._

_The sleek blade presses against the thin skin of his jugular. Leveling the kid with his own dark gaze, he knows for certain that he better be honest. Not a hint of hesitation lingers in those harsh depths._

_Breaths shallow, holding the kid’s stare, Shiro answers. “I wasn’t coming to hurt you. I’m sorry for following you. I wanted to ask you where you learned to fight.”_

_Narrowing his gaze, the kid’s grip tightens on his shirt and the knife nicks him._

_“Hey, hey!” Shiro breaths, trying to keep calm._

_He knows he could overpower the young man, but that’s not what he wants. Plus, with the way the kid wields the blade, he doesn’t want to take the risk of dying tonight._

_“I’m not lying, all right? You fought really well. Gave me a run for my money. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good fight like that, and I just want to know if you’ve had training.”_

_It takes several long seconds before Shiro is released. He rubs his neck. A faint smear of red paints his fingers, nothing more than a little scratch._

_The kid backs up a few feet, maintaining a fair distance. Survival, Shiro recognizes as he ensures he has opened up as many opportunities for escape as possible._

_“Why do you care?”_

_“I told you, it’s been a while since I’ve had a decent opponent.”_

_A scoff and the kid rolls his eyes. “I doubt that.”_

_Shiro shrugs, meeting that untrusting gaze head on. “What reason do I have to lie to you?”_

_Without missing a beat, he answers, “Every reason.”_

Allura and he continue to walk in time with one another. She doesn’t interrupt, letting Shiro continue with his story. He appreciates the silence. After she’ll bombard him with questions, wanting to know more about Keith and what his situation was to have made him so callous. Answers that he hopes he won’t have to give because they’ll be back to the apartment where he can fall asleep and avoid them.

“I convinced him to sit down and have some food with me. It was like pulling teeth trying to get more than one-word answers from him. But,” he smiles, glancing at his friend, “patience yields focus.”

Allura’s features brighten with pride and understanding. That phrase has been the foundation on which he led his soldiers. It kept them alive during nail-biting missions where the outlook was bleak and many had lost faith in making it home.

“It took time, but Keith started warming up to me. He’s like the little brother that I never had. I just…” Shiro pauses, head tilting up to stare up into the sky. “I wish we were more open with each other. Honestly, I wish the whole crew was.”

“What do you mean?”

“None of us talk about our personal lives. I mean, we talk. I know that Lance has a big family and that Pidge goes to college and never sleeps. Hunk can cook like the greatest chef in the world, which he has no qualms about admitting, and Keith, well, he’s got some of the best martial arts skills I’ve seen. He teaches self-defense in his free time to young kids.”

Allura hums to herself, pursed lips twisting in thought. “But you don’t know why they fight or what goes on beneath the surface.”

“Exactly,” he breathes.

“Then why don’t you ask?”

It’s not that he hasn’t considered the idea. Asking is the only solution to this issue, yet, he continues to hesitate.

Still, looking up at the steadily brightening sky, he admits in a soft tone, “I’m afraid that they’ll leave. I’m scared that if I ask those questions, then they will think I’m asking for more than they are willing to give and go find something else with less emotional ties.”

Shiro feels the sympathetic gaze and refuses to meet it. Allura knows his story. She happens to be privy to the story of his childhood which was the catalyst for his current fears.

Their building comes into view, Allura remaining silent as they climb the steps to their front door. Even as they remove their shoes, the apartment remains quiet. Until they begin to part for their separate rooms.

“Shiro,” she calls in her gentle accent. Allura stands at her bedroom door, hand on the knob, almost hesitant despite the conviction in her features.

“I don’t think they will leave you. Maybe you can’t see it, but that crew, they trust you with their lives. I believe they are just waiting for you to open up first and allow them in as they have already done with you.”

He lets her words sink in for a moment before the edges of his lips curl up in a small smile. “Thanks, Allura.”

She smiles and disappears into her room, leaving Shiro to mull over her words and make a decision -- to leap or to stay rooted in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, again for the long wait for this! I've had a crazy work schedule and then I was out of town for a business trip. I just haven't had time to sit down and work on this story :( 
> 
> THAT DOES NOT MEAN I WILL LEAVE YOU HANGING!! :D 
> 
> With that, how was that fight?!?!?! I tried to recreate that fight scene between clone Shiro and Keith in the show because that was perfection. I didn't want it to be too brutal because I really don't want to see these two beat each other to pulps even if they love each other. 
> 
> We got a little bit of background on how Shiro and Keith met, and you should definitely expect more scenes like that. I like to use those small little flashbacks to show their background without having to write a whole chapter on it.
> 
> Also, Shiro and Allura are such friendship goals. I love those two and their support for one another <3 
> 
> I will be out of town this upcoming week so I can't promise much writing will get done. I will try to update as soon as I can, though! 
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my soul ●‿●


	6. Long Walks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge + Fighting = Protective & Supportive Voltron Family
> 
> Matt + Shiro = Best BROTP next to Hunk & Lance
> 
> French Fries = Love 
> 
> Lance + Shiro + Walking = Precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Crashes through wall* HEY EVERYBODY! 
> 
> The only reason this took so long is that I made a promise with myself that I wouldn't post a new chapter until I had finished a chapter further along in the story. That chapter was a pain hence the wait...also because I was lazy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ So, here's a very pretty, typed sorry in the form of a new chapter! 
> 
> As always thank you to everyone who reads this story! Shoutout to TheGoblinKing111 for your comment last chapter! BAMF Voltron also gives me life! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The basement of the Castle of Lions teems with fighters and onlookers, shoulder to shoulder, nearly chest to back. Shiro takes a breath, filling his lungs with the musty, thick air that smells of blood and sweat. He watches the brutality in the ring with a blank expression.

Crimson paints one man’s mouth and chest. His opponent keeps one arm taut across his chest, right eye swelling shut. Shiro doesn’t know them. They could be lone fighters or members of a crew he has yet to meet. Either way, neither man holds back. Watching with a critical eye, Shiro analyzes their stances, imagines himself in their shoes and what he would do.

The one with the bleeding nose makes a jab that misses. They circle each other, trading punches until finally, one lands.

Shiro doesn’t ever pick winners. For the exact reason that you never know the inner strength of an individual. Anybody watching would have assumed the one with the injured ribs would have been the loser, seeing as he couldn’t move quick or protect himself as well with only one arm. However, he waited his opponent out. Let them tire themselves and then came in with an unexpected uppercut that laid the man out cold.

Fighting involves more than strength. There must be patience which needs tenacity. If you have that then you are the strongest in every fight.

Arms crossed, Shiro leans back against their wooden crate. Pidge sits on top, her legs dangling off the edge with one-foot bouncing. Hunk and Lance trade whispered words, bright smiles on their faces. Keith mirrors his stance, foot resting on the crate behind him. Nobody comments on the fight that occurred. They watch in silence as Griffin and Anjay step into the ring with blue latex gloves and bleach. The sharp smell burns the crowd’s noses, but it’s better than somebody catching some bloodborne pathogen.

Just another reason why Shiro loves the Castle of Lions.

With a glance at the whiteboard across the room, Shiro takes advantage of the lull in the crowd’s energy.

“Pidge, are you ready for this?”

His question brings the underlying tension of the crew to the surface. The joking between Hunk and Lance stops. Keith’s scowl becomes deeper somehow. Even for himself, Shiro’s hands ball into tight fists.

They all know Pidge can stand her own in a fight. Countless fights have ended with the young woman standing over her opponent with the fierceness of a lioness who ended a predator. Still, though, there have been others where she laid on that mat like a bird with clipped wings. The cause of one of those such fights happens to be the same opponent she faces tonight.

Hence, the unease from the crew.

Pidge doesn’t answer right away. Shiro doesn’t look her way either. He gives her the space to let all the emotions play across her youthful features. When she gathers herself, her voice sounds above him, unwavering with determination.

“Hell yeah, I am.”

“That’s our little gremlin!” Lance cheers, which earns him glare from the fighter.

Lance smiles wider, the others all wearing amused smirks before Pidge jumps down from her perch. Shiro rests a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the tightness he feels in her muscles.

She pats his hand, removes her glasses and rolls her shoulders. Her hair is cropped short, the bob messy per usual. Those small, but powerful fists are wrapped in black cloth to match her joggers and her sleeveless shirt clings to her petite frame. Hunk takes her glasses for her with a reassuring smile and Keith gives her a few quick pointers.

Everything that she already knows, but appreciates anyway. Pidge knows they do it because they care. It’s not to undermine her ability. They are well aware that despite her appearance, Pidge can throw a mean punch. No, they do it because she’s the little sister they all don’t have.

Looking out into the ring she notes her opponent. Her jaw clenches tight, ready for redemption against the man. Haxus, a member of the Galra crew. He stands at average height with a long face with sharp features. As standard for the Galra, they wear their signature purple and have tattooed in red at the back of their neck the initials V.S.

Lance jokes that they must be huge Victoria’s Secret fans behind their backs. The truth, however, does not hold the same humor. The two letters stand for _Vrepit sa_ which means “killing stroke.”

Nobody enjoys fighting the Galra. They always stay within the rules, but they’re brutal without mercy. When a fighter steps in the ring with them it is not a fight for release. No, it is a fight for survival.

Not to mention, the Galra have it out for the Voltron crew. That has to do with the history they have with Shiro, but an issue with one of them becomes an issue for all of them.

Lance follows Pidge into the crowd, stopping at the edge of the ring to whisper into her ear. She smiles, takes a breath and enters. Shiro, Hunk, and Keith stay in their spots, watching with sharp eyes as the fight begins.

Not a half a second later, Haxus rushes the young fighter. Pidge dives, rolls to her feet behind her opponent, blocks the kick and ducks under the right hook. The pace quickens between the two fighters. Pidge lands a three-two-one combo but doesn’t block her face in time to avoid the jab to the nose.

Tears burn her eyes. No blood comes, though, as she stumbles back to avoid another hit from the fighter. It does hurt like a son of a bitch, however. Gritting her teeth, she forces herself to focus, leaning to the right to miss another hit. Pidge trips over her feet, shakes her head to clear it, and fakes a jab before snapping her fist up in a fierce uppercut to the abdomen.

Haxus grunts, low and pained with the hit. He swings wild, catching Pidge in the arms that defend her face. They dance around the ring trading harsh blows. Bruises bloom in the wake of each hit. Blood paints bare knuckles and wrapped fists.

Pidge takes a hard hit, stumbling over her feet. Haxus grips her arm, nails biting into the skin, as he pins her arm behind her back. The muscles in her arm protest. Tension sends warning signals to her brain in nanoseconds warning that if he twists that wrist any more then she will experience excruciating pain. Jaw clenched; a pained whine escapes passed her tightly pressed lips.

Her back against his chest, arm pinned between, she can feel his laugh. Anger burns hot in her belly in return. Deep breath in, Pidge shifts her feet, releases all the air from her lungs, and with a shout, drives the heel of her foot down on Haxus’ foot. Wrist free, Pidge rams an elbow back, catching him in the stomach before lurching away to strategize.

Shiro watches, fists clenching and unclenching with each move made by the fighters. He keeps his emotions in check, but inside his heart stutters with each hit Pidge takes. So, with his attention preoccupied, he doesn’t notice the figure sidle up beside him. Not until a familiar voice sounds over the cheering of the crowd.

“I really hate that she does this.”

Attention diverted, a soft grin tugs at his lips. The man beside him comes up to shoulder height on Shiro. If you were to turn back time a couple of years ago, take away a couple of inches, then Pidge would be Matt’s carbon copy. Except now, that short, unruly cut of golden-brown hair has grown out. Matt could easily pull it back in a short ponytail now, but instead, it hangs down to his shoulders, straight and tame compared to his old cut.

His focus remains on the ring, hazel eyes tracking his younger sister. Pidge takes a hit to the ribs earning a wince of sympathy from the sibling.

“You always say that,” Shiro retorts in greeting. “But you know how she felt about you fighting. It would be the pot calling the kettle black, Matt.”

“Disappears for a year and comes back with sage words. What you grow old and wise in your time away?” he teases.

Shiro nudges him, playful as their relationship has always been. “We’re the same age. That means you should already have the same wisdom.”

That earns a laugh. Matt tears his gaze away from the fight for a second to flick the white forelock of Shiro’s hair, who rolls his eyes, knowing the comment that will follow.

“Same age, my ass. Shiro, old guys aren’t supposed to look as good as you do! What happened to the beer gut and beard you’re supposed to have when you get white hair?”

“I traded that for a new arm,” he jokes, raising the prosthetic limb.

Matt snorts, shakes his head, and turns his attention back to the ring. “Could you not with the self-deprecation. It’s too early for that. Also, don’t let Katie get near that. She’ll have a field day with it and want to upgrade it so it shoots missiles or something.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Shiro chuckles. “Too late. She wants to turn me into Iron Man.”

“Hmm, on second thought, let her tamper away. I could be your War Machine then.”

Shiro barks a sharp laugh, the sound cut off by the crowd erupting in a wild roar.

Pidge’s chest heaves with each breath. Blood trails down her cheek where swelling has begun. Haxus limps around the ring, trying to keep weight off his right foot. Sweat drips down both fighter’s faces where it mixes with crimson. However, what has the crowd cheering is the way Haxus’ steps are uncoordinated. His eyes swim in his head. He shakes it, but whatever hit Pidge landed rang the man’s bell.        

Not wasting the chance, Pidge charges, coming in low under Haxus’ pitiful defense. She lands a hard jab to his solar plexus. He curls over, nearly dropping to his knees. Exposed without his defenses, Pidge takes no mercy on the fighter. Connected like a puppet string, her right foot and arm moves as one, throwing all of her weight and power into the swinging uppercut. Her fist connects under his chin, snapping his head back.

Thunderous screams fill the basement. People jump up and down despite the low ceiling as Haxus lands on his back, out cold.

Pidge stumbles back from the laid-out fighter, gasping for air. Her limbs shake from exhaustion and the leftover adrenaline still pumping through her veins. She startles when a hand grips her shoulder. Instinct kicks in still keyed up, but she stops as Lance’s voice whispers against her ear.

“Easy, Pidge. You’re good.”

Another harsh breath. She lets his words sink in, focusing on her breathing.

_I won._

The thought brings a giant smile to her bloodied face as she twists in Lance’s hold. He grins, eyes bright with pride and excitement. Cheers and shouts continue as Lance ruffles her hair and lead her out of the ring before the Galra step in to gather up their fighter. They know better than to stick around after beating a Galra.

The Galra could never do anything with Coran’s strict rules in place. That doesn’t mean that you test those rules by staying in the ring with Galra fighters after one has been beaten.

Shiro sticks his pinky fingers in his mouth and whistles long and sharp for Pidge. He spots Lance with her inside the ring and settles back against the crate with joy burning warmly in his chest. Matt, on the other hand, wears a troubled expression.

Nudging his friend, Shiro raises a thin eyebrow in question. Matt shakes his head in response, releases a heavy breath, and then mutters, “I know Lance is looking out for her, but...I don’t know.”

Matt’s not done yet, so Shiro gives him a moment. Sure enough, the older Holt rubs at the back of his neck, groaning. “I’m not supposed to feel this way, and it’s fucking stupid, but that’s my little sister. That should be me.”

Shiro lets Matt vent, choosing to keep his thoughts to himself. Matt is his friend. However, at the Castle of Lions, they are leaders of two separate crews. The time and the place aren’t right to be having a heart to heart about Matt and his sister’s relationship. Especially considering that Matt only has himself to blame for the rift in their relationship.

So, Shiro bites his tongue, hums in understanding as Pidge and Lance push through the crowd to them. Pidge’s gaze lands on her brother, and she tears away from Lance’s side to throw herself at Matt.

He catches her with practiced ease. Any trace of frustration gone from his features as he hugs her tight and congratulates her on her win. Once Pidge’s feet hit solid ground again, she goes off on all the ins and outs of the fight. Matt listens and the rest of Voltron watch on in amusement. Nobody tries to stop her rant. Not even to try and butterfly bandage the cut on her cheek. They know better than to interrupt her as she rehashes each move and mistake. So, they wait, listening to her analyze herself, and know that this was just one more win for their little gremlin.

* * *

 

Both crews, Voltron and the Rebels, pack into the Garrison, giving life to the dead diner at the late hour. Iverson stays busy behind the counter whipping up everyone’s orders while the two crews chatter loudly. They take up three booths, intermixed in order to catch up with one another. Lance, Keith, Pidge, Olia, and Te-osh sit together, the girls all ganging up on the guys and egging on their endless bickering. Hunk and Shay sit in the booth behind them, sharing the same side so they can talk together in hushed words.

The backs of their heads are to Shiro, but he can tell from the stiffness of their shoulders that the conversation is serious.

He makes a mental note to ask one of the others about it later when he gets a chance. A few snippets of conversation here and there let Shiro know that there were some issues between the couple, but he doesn’t know the whole story.

“Shiro, are you listening?”

Clearing his throat, he fixes Matt with a dry look. “You were talking about the hot girl at the bar that you hit on with a science one-liner and how she was actually a physicist and understood it.”

Matt narrows his gaze with a pout as he crosses his arms. “I hate it when you do that.”

He only smirks before grabbing a fry off their shared plate. The other’s break out in sharp laughter behind Matt while Keith scowls at Lance who beams with pride. His smirk turns into a frown, remembering that the Rebel crew happens to be missing one member.

“Hey, where’s Sven?”

Eyes going wide, Matt clears his throat. “Dude, nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Sven got shot.”

“What!” Shiro shouts.

The other members of the two crews pause for a moment in their conversations before jumping right back in and ignoring the two of them.

Shiro stares at his friend, speechless at the news. Sven has been a part of the Rebels since before they were a fully formed crew. The others liked to joke that he was Shiro’s long lost twin from Sweden. Admittedly, the two did look alike, but they say everyone has a doppelganger somewhere in the world.

Matt nods. “Yeah, he was leaving work and some random crew shot him right in the chest.”

Grief paints Shiro’s scarred face, his eyes downcast. “Matt... I’m so sorry,” he manages with deep sympathy.

“Nah man, it’s all good. Sven lived.”

The poor man is going to suffer whiplash at this rate. Shiro’s gaze snaps to Matt, mouth agape. “Seriously?!”

“Yeah. Drove himself to the hospital and lived.”

“Tha-that’s insane,” Shiro’s words breathed out in awe.

“Yep,” Matt agrees, popping his ‘p.’ “Except, ever since then, he stopped fighting. Decided he was better off almost dying once.”

A fact that Shiro understands far better than he would like. He picks another fry, dipping it in ketchup.

“So, what are you going to do? Your crew is down one person.”

Releasing a long breath, Matt slides down in the booth seat with a calculating look. “I know. There’s a new guy at the bar. Looks like he might be into this.”

Shiro hums in thought, still trying to wrap his head around what he’s missed. It doesn’t seem real that in the time he was gone so much has changed. He knew better than anyone, being a soldier, that a lot could happen while deployed. Part of him assumed that this piece of his life wouldn’t.

Bitterness fills his gut, but he ignores it. He has no right to be bitter. After all, while he was recovering, he chose to push his crew away instead of letting them in. He could have been a part of all of this.

“You’ll figure it out,” Shiro reassures, once more taking another fry.

Matt has barely touched the plate and eyes it. Shiro only arches an eyebrow in question. They got the plate of fries to share. Now, most of it has disappeared, a fact that Shiro is sadly aware of.

“I thought this was for both of us,” Matt says, arms still crossed.

“It is,” Shiro assures as he takes another fry and dips it in ketchup. “You’re just too busy talking.”

Matt rolls his eyes, grabs the plate and slides it closer to himself, arm wrapped defensively around it to protect it from stealing fingers. He narrows his eyes at him while taking a bite out of a fry.

Shiro frowns and sits back in the booth seat. “Tell me more about this guy you’re thinking of recruiting.”

His defensive positioning of the plate of fries does not falter, a fact Shiro knows. After being friends for four years now, they are both attuned to each other’s tactics of distraction when it comes to swiping food.

However, Matt’s face does shift to one of a suggestive nature as he wiggles his eyebrows. “Yooouuu knnoooow,” he draws out, “now that I think about it, you two would make a cute couple.”

“Matt,” Shiro groans, shaking his head. “I’m not interested in a relationship.”

“Or a one-night stand,” he adds when he notices his friend opening his mouth.

With that, Matt shrugs and lets the topic go. “He’s quiet but intense. Quick-witted and smart, which surprises me that he’s working at a bar of all places.”

“You could be working for NASA and yet you work at a bar, Matt.”

Waving his hand, he brushes aside the compliment. “Yeah, yeah, anyway, I don’t know much else about him. He just got hired within the last two weeks and we work together on the weekends which doesn’t leave a lot of time for chit chat when people want to get their drunk on.”

Unable to argue that point, Shiro nods. The Rebel crew won’t be short a member for long. For as long as Shiro has known Matt, his wit and charm have gotten him far in life, especially the underground fighting ring. So, if he says he thinks this guy will be a good fit, then Shiro knows it will only be a matter of time until they meet him.

A plate of fries slides across the table, both men looking up to Iverson. Shiro, without blinking an eye, grabs the plate. Matt’s brows scrunch together in confusion.

“We didn’t order this,” he comments.

“You didn’t. He did,” Iverson answers, pointing at Shiro, before turning away to take his place back behind the counter.

Shiro has a fry halfway to his mouth, quirks his lips up in a grin, and says, “Thanks, Matt.”

Narrowed hazel eyes stare back at him. His lips pull into a thin line and with the driest tone, says, “You’re going to get fat.”

Shiro, too his credit, does not choke on his fry at the rude accusation. He does, however, stick his tongue out like a six-year-old. “You shouldn’t say hurtful things.”

“You shouldn’t take advantage of my money.”

“You’re just jealous,” Shiro retorts, pouring a generous amount of ketchup off to the side of his plate for dipping.

“You just ate a whole plate!” his friend protests, reaching across to try and steal some of the highly valued food. Shiro easily moves the plate out of reach, scowling at the comment.

“It’s carb day! Let me enjoy it!”

Iverson ends up yelling at them both and threatening to make Matt clean toilets for two weeks when Matt starts to climb across the table to steal back the share of fries that Shiro ate. The scolding stops the fight, and Shiro gets to eat his plate in peace, or at least with only a handful of bruises from being kicked in the shins under the table.

Not long after that, the two crews pay their tabs and shuffle out of the diner. They stroll down the sidewalk in the early hours of the morning - the world still asleep.

It brings back memories of youth; fifteen and sneaking out to enjoy the peace that night brought. Shiro never snuck out to meet up for parties. No, it was always to get out of the city to admire the black sky and the twinkle of light that held so many mysteries. As long as Shiro can remember, he has always wanted to chase the stars. That dream drove him to become a pilot, the closest he could get.

He could have been an astronaut, although, he enjoyed the thrill of a fighter jet too much. Nothing compared to the way his stomach would drop at zero Gs, nose-diving towards earth only to climb back up into the sky -- where disappearing into the stratosphere wasn’t so impossible.

Hunk and Shay bring up the rear of the of the group, shoulder to shoulder. Shiro notes the way their pinkies are linked, hiding his soft smile before the others notice. Keith, Lance, Olia, and Te-Osh lead the way, laughing and bickering still. Their voices boom in the quiet of the night -- a sharp contrast to their typical walks back home. It puts Shiro on edge. Instinct reminds him that stealth keeps you alive, that gut feeling trying to drag him into the past full of war-torn memories. He closes his eyes, takes three calming breaths, and focuses on the voices of the two groups.

_You’re home. Not there._

A nudge from his side has his eyes opening and looking down to his right. Matt meets his dark eyes, concern written in his hazel ones, but Shiro smiles, although small, and turns his attention to Pidge who rambles on about the group she was assigned in her advanced quantum physics class and how they are all imbeciles.

“Now, Katie, you can’t insult people just because you’re a badass genius. It’s not fair that they can’t defend themselves,” Matt chastises. Shiro snorts at the thick tone of sarcasm.

Pidge, on the other hand, rolls with it. “Matt, it’s like having a bunch of Lance’s who don’t know when a girl’s not interested.”

“Hey!”

The trio chuckle at their friend’s indignant squawk. Keith ribs the fighter a bit more before the two begin to wrestle on the street, smiling and laughing even as they trade insults. Shiro and Te-Osh end up breaking the two up. It never got out of hand, but they are a group on a public street, fighting.  All it would take is for someone to walk by, peek out their window, or a patrol to come by and they would all be in some shit. None of them need that.

So, they carry on down the empty streets, under the glow of yellow street lights with open laughs and unabashed conversations. Te-Osh slips away first, keys already in hand as she climbs rickety wooden steps to a second-floor apartment. Then Shay and Olia break away. However, not before Hunk and Shay share soft, longing looks. Nobody speaks a word as they wait for Shay to enter her house (because for Hunk they would do anything, even walk and wait as his girlfriend gets to her front door).

Lance drifts away from Keith and nudges Hunk in the side. The two share a simple look, one that Shiro has yet to decipher. He admires their relationship -- the ease in which they understand each other without words, actions speaking louder than what they can say.

It’s not long before they reach the street corner where Lance and Pidge depart. Except for this time, Lance won’t be walking Pidge home since Matt has joined them.

Matt and Shiro share a tight hug, harsh pats to the back before separating. His friend wears a soft smile while his eyes show mischief.

“You owe me a plate of fries next time.”

Shiro snorts, challenging, “You’ll have to make it worth it.”

“Oh, I will.”

It would have been a great moment to walk away -- leaving an air of anticipation in his wake. Except Pidge shoves her brother, sending Matt stumbling to the side.

“Yeah, whatever you say, Matt. You’re my brother, but Voltron’s going to kick your ass either way,” she smirks before giving Shiro a quick hug and then saying her goodbyes to the others.

Feigning hurt, the oldest Holt clutches his chest, fake weeping. “Sister! You wound me with your harsh words! Is there no love for your own blood?”

Pidge rolls her eyes and smacks Matt upside the head, earning a whine before she hops on his back. Matt huffs, irritation a mask while his eyes show deep affection. Until Pidge kicks him, telling him to get a move on.

A chorus of soft laughs follow the two as they cross the street, Pidge hanging off Matt’s back and swinging her legs, leaving the remaining fighters of the Voltron crew.

Lance shakes his head, a fond grin curling his lips upwards, “Freakin’ gremlin.”

It earns him a huff of laughs from the others.

The rest of their walk carries on in general silence with a few snippets of conversation between the four men. But, as six became four, their small group soon turns to two as Hunk and Keith approach their street. They part quickly, sharing brief hugs and teasing jabs that are followed by quick reminders to get home safe. Shiro and Lance stand on the street corner watching Hunk and Keith for a moment before they to make their way home.

Steps in time with one another, the two remaining members of Voltron head down the empty streets of the city. A car comes down the road with their headlights washing over the two before disappearing around a corner, leaving them in the dark with the occasional streetlight and silvery moon.

Shiro wracks his brain to remember the last time it was only Lance and him. He comes up blank, though. However, he knows for certain that the Lance he knew could not stand silence. So, it comes as a surprise as they walk together that the younger fighter never says a word. It only makes Shiro wonder what all he missed in his absence.

He could ask, start some awkward small talk because he’s so great at that, and hope that it will push the fighter into a conversation. A gnawing uncertainty at the back of his mind, though, keeps his lips pressed together in a vow of silence.

The last bit of autumn hangs in the air - that crisp coolness holding an edge of bitter cold that has both of them burying hands deep into pockets. Lance sniffles, tucking his chin against his chest with hunched shoulders.

“I ever mention how I hate the cold?”

Amusement lines Shiro’s scarred face. “Yeah, I think a few times.”

Lance grumbles a few words, swiping a sleeve under his nose before huffing in defeat. Silence lapses again between the two. However, that uncertainty from before has faded into relief. With the door of conversation opened, Shiro starts to ask some burning questions. Allura had said to just ask. For once, he’s going to actually heed that advice.

“I’m so used to you walking with Pidge, I forget how long we walk together.”

Vague, unassuming -- a simple statement that allows Lance to fill in where he wants without any pressure.

Lance’s face twists in confusion. “Dude, you never realized that I’m walking you home?”

Shiro blinks. He did not know that in the slightest, which he eloquently explains by stumbling over his words. “Wh-wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Lance laughs. “You live the farthest away. I know you’re in the better neighborhoods so I typically take off once we reach that area, and I don’t have to worry about you being jumped.”

“But-”

“It’s better lit too, which is another reason I worry less. I mean your odds of being attacked are probably equal since people like to stake out the nicer places, but the police do a better job of patrolling those areas. Plus, people actually care so they’ll call for help if they see anything suspicious, you know?”

Lance rambles, leaving no room for Shiro to squeeze a word in.

_...they trust you with their lives._

Being the leader of Voltron, Shiro always saw it as his responsibility to watch out for the others. That’s what leaders do. Like the alpha wolf, he hangs at the back of his pack in order to better protect and ensure that no one gets left behind. Being behind the others, you see all their growth, but you don’t necessarily see how the other wolves help their leader.

This past couple of years, the crew has grown a lot. Not just in their fighting skills, but as adults. They weren’t kids when he first met them, but they weren’t exactly flourishing adults either. It could be argued they aren’t now, but Shiro disagrees. After all, he has watched first-hand the personal growth they’ve achieved.

So, hearing that Lance has been making sure he gets home safely after fights, makes his heart grow heavy with fondness. He grips the younger man’s shoulder, silencing his rant and wears a genuine smile that crinkles the skin around his eyes.

“Thank you. I never realized that you were doing that. It means a lot.”

Big blue eyes stare up at him in surprise before softening as his lips curl into a lopsided grin. “It’s nothing, man.”

Shiro shakes his head, though, tightening his grip on Lance. He knows how the fighter can be quick to brush off these sorts of things - a habit that Shiro tries to beat down when he can. Which is why, he holds that ocean gaze, saying with honesty,

“It’s not nothing. You’re obviously going way out of your way to do this for me, even Pidge, and I know you would for Keith and Hunk too. So, I mean it, thank you for watching out for me. For all of us.”

He knows he struck a chord when Lance looks away from him, hands fidgeting in his pockets. The fighter clears his throat, opens his mouth, but then shakes his head.

“You’re welcome.”

Shiro releases him and the two continue their walk, albeit Shiro at a slower pace. He wants to drag this out for as long as possible because there are so many new questions. If Lance notices, he doesn’t mention it, keeping an easy gait alongside him.

“Can I ask why?” he ventures after a brief moment of quiet between the two.

“I grew up on these streets, Shiro. I know how bad they can be, how bad they are. It doesn’t matter what your gender is or how big you are, people are desperate. The one thing I’ve learned, though, is that they leave you alone if there’s more than one. I just like to keep the odds in our favor.”

A fact that Shiro knows all too well himself. He was a rat of the streets himself as a young teen. It was why he joined the military. His life had two paths at seventeen: prison or a coffin. Still, he didn’t escape that part of his life, ending back up on these streets as a fighter and leader of his own crew.             

“But why always me or Pidge? Keith used to go off by himself all the time. Same as Hunk.”              

“Keith and Hunk both grew up on these streets too. Plus, Keith would have beaten the crap out of me if I tried to follow him anywhere at first. It’s different now. But with him rooming with Hunk, I don’t worry. As for Hunk, most nights he was crashing with Shay at her house. A quick walk in one of the better parts.”

Shiro nods his head, prompting. “Okay, but then what about me and Pidge?”

Lance doesn’t hesitate, a bit unsure, but still answering. “Pidge wasn’t from around here. I knew that the moment I saw her, even though she did a pretty damn good job of hiding it. Walking her home was a habit before Voltron was a thing. She was stubborn about it in the beginning, so I lied and told her I lived nearby. I guess she felt guilty because she never brought it up after that.”

“And you,” Lance rubs the back of his head, lips pursed, “I knew you were military, but that didn’t stop me from worrying since you weren’t from the area either.”

Laughter bubbles out of Shiro’s chest, placating his confused friend as he elaborates. “I am from the area, though. I grew up on these streets as a teenager. It wasn’t until after joining that I moved into that nice neighborhood.”

They’ve stopped once again because Lance currently has his face buried in his hands, mortified. That is if his pink ears aren’t from the cold.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, words muffled from behind his hands. Shiro’s amused laugh sounds in the quiet.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Lance sighs, finally dropping his hands to reveal the pink embarrassment on his cheeks. “I know. I just…” he laughs. “I guess I still got a lot to learn about you.”

“Me too,” Shiro admits, all apprehension draining from him. They’ve spent two years together as a crew, calling each other family. Yet, when it comes down to it, they’re strangers who came together with the same goal - kick ass.

“Not much to know,” Lance says, earning a light shove followed by a pointed look from Shiro. A smile tugs at his lips, albeit hidden by the giant eye roll he gives. “I mean, what do you want to know?”

Their steps are in sync, and Shiro takes a right to cross the deserted street. It’s the long way back to his place, and he knows that the moment he reaches his door, his opportunity to ask his questions will be lost. He doesn’t know when he’ll get another chance to be alone with Lance again so he plans to draw this out. If Lance notices, he doesn’t mention it.

“How’d you meet Pidge? She’s never told me the whole story.”

He could ask about his family. Why he ended up in the underground fighting scene? Dozens of other questions could have been asked, but Shiro wants to know more about his crew, about the people who have his back with unyielding faith. What better way to learn about them than to figure out how they all came together individually?

Lance snorts. “Not much to tell. I was at a different fighting ring, got my ass handed to me, and when I left, I came upon these guys harassing this girl. Three against one, and you can imagine Pidge and how tiny she is. It didn’t look good. So, I made some comment, probably something cliché, and then got my ass handed to me for a second time that night.”

The fighter wears a wry grin, staring down the street. Shiro listens, cringing at the way Lance downplays his actions. None of it matters that he got his ass kicked. As he said, it was three against one. Even if Lance is bigger than Pidge, that doesn’t change how the odds were stacked against him. Yet, Shiro holds his tongue, letting his friend continue.

“I held my own enough to keep their attention off of Pidge, but of course, she had to jump in and help. We managed to come out on top, and the rest is history.”

Shiro doubts that it ended like that. He knows Pidge. That girl definitely gave Lance hell afterward, but Shiro doesn’t push. After all, Lance didn’t have to open up to him. So, he’ll take what he gives.

“You saved her.”

Which Shiro finds are the wrong words to say by Lance’s reaction. His thin brows draw together, mouth twisted down in a deep frown, and he looks off in another direction.

“I guess.”

_One day_ , he thinks, he’ll get through to him. Until then, he grabs Lance’s shoulder, firmly squeezing the lean muscle there. It forces him to look at Shiro, deep blue eyes meeting with dark obsidian ones.

“You did,” he asserts, hoping that each time he drives the man’s self-doubt further and further away.           

To Lance’s credit, he doesn’t shrug or roll his eyes. It’s small, the edge of that frown curling up into a barely-there smile, but Shiro takes it.

The rest of their walk carries on with simple questions being asked and answered before the two falls into a companionable silence. They’ve already crossed over into the nicer part of town, the point where Lance would typically take off. Tonight, though, he stays at Shiro’s side until he reaches his apartment.

“This is me.”

Lance nods, looking back down the street they came. His shoulders are hunched up to his ears while his nose still drips from the cold. Something nags at Shiro’s thoughts, watching the fighter release an inaudible sigh. All these little things that, as Lance goes to leave, has Shiro blurting.

“Hey, how far away do you live?”

“Uh…”

The hesitation has him taking a step forward, away from his home. He hates to use it, but if Lance has been making a sacrifice for him all this time, then he’s damn sure going to return it.

That authoritative voice he saves for times of war and ordering people around comes out - having the exact reaction he wants. “Lance, where do you live?”

No fight, no dodging the question, those broad shoulders slump, Lance's head falling back to look up at the night sky. “All the way on the other side of town.”

Surprised, Shiro shakes his head, trying to comprehend that simple statement. “Lance, that’s a thirty-minute walk minimum.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You cross through some of the worst neighborhoods in this city,” Shiro argues causing the other to shrug his shoulders.

He sighs, slipping behind Lance and gripping his shoulders. Lance splutters, looking over his shoulder at Shiro, confused, “Wh-wait, what are you doing?”

Lance stumbles forward as Shiro pushes him towards the steps of his apartment, not understanding the implications until Shiro explains simply.

“You’re staying with me.”

Prepared for the impending argument, Shiro clamps down on Lance’s shoulders, ensuring he can’t slip away easily. “Look, you’re my friend. I care about you. All this time you’ve been looking out for me. So, all I’m asking is that you let me do this.”

Tension leaks of his broad shoulders, a quiet, “Okay,” breathed into the night.

A victorious grin splits across Shiro’s lips, ushering his friend up the steps.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, Pidge is pretty badass, huh? I love that mischievous, brilliant gremlin. The first time we see her fight in the show is against Haxus and I thought it was key to also make her debut fight in this story the same. 
> 
> That last bit there with Lance and Shiro was super fun for me to write because we know in the show that Lance idolized Shiro, but we never got to really see the two of them have this quality time together. I think that it's really important to see masculine figures like this being supportive and positive and protective like this. 
> 
> I know that there are some plot points brought up here that may not make sense, but they will all be explained in the future. The point of this story is how these fighters come together with different needs and how they become a family. Yes, they are a family now or at least say they are, but they know nothing about each other. It's about the importance of communication and how without it, what looks strong can easily fall apart....(Foreshadowing? No. It's not. I mean it. I'm cruel, in different ways ◕‿◕) 
> 
> Let me know what was your favorite moment of this chapter! I personally love Shiro and Matt fighting over french fries.


	7. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge + Memories = Bittersweet
> 
> Lance - Winning = Not Pretty 
> 
> Pidge + Lance = The Next Best Friendship to Pidge & Hunk
> 
> Generalized Thought: Pidge + Any Member of Voltron = Amazing Fun Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn't take a month! I still have 3 days :D 
> 
> Thank you for everybody who is sticking with me despite my long update wait time! You are amazing and beautiful and I love you. Also, extra love for Red Lion and TheGoblinKing111 for your comments and all the people who give kudos! 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Bloodied knuckles connect, a dull thump heard over the cheers of the onlookers. They land hard on a sharp jaw, twisting the fighter’s head to the left.

Pidge swears she sees blood spray. Her knees bounce in their crossed state while she fidgets with her hands. The skin on her lips has been chewed raw from the constant gnawing since the fight started. She wants to look away, has had to a couple of times because of the ruthlessness of the opponent.

Keith stands below her, corded muscles tense with the losing match. His fists keep clenching and unclenching, restless. She knows he’s dying to jump into that ring to end this once and for all.

Hunk too can barely stay still. He continues shouting out encouragements, but they get drowned out over the excited crowd. Shiro, on the other hand, watches with such intensity, Pidge is surprised the opponent has yet to drop dead on the spot. Stock still, compared to the rest of them, he stands a little off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest. His lips move in a silent mantra, dark eyes never once leaving the forms of the two fighters.

The crowd’s roars become deafening, forcing Pidge’s attention back to the scene in the ring.

Lance sways on his feet, desperation the only thing keeping him upright. The man can take a beating, always could. A fact that Pidge had the unfortunate timing to witness.

She can’t help but let that memory wash over her, this fight all too similar to the first night they met. A shiver runs down her spine, the same way her body reacted when she was cornered. Her hands grip her bent knees, nails digging into the soft fabric to leave crescent half-moon indents in her skin.

_They weren’t as stealthy as they thought. Pidge heard them three blocks back, but she didn’t think it was_ them. _Hindsight, though, she should have known. After all these fights, not once has she been followed. Yet, this would be the first where she took back what was rightfully hers. Guess what goes around, comes around, after all._

_She buries her hands deeper into the pocket of her hoodie, shoulders hunched up to her ears. Ahead, the streetlights end and leave a stretch of dark sidewalk. If they were going to jump her, that’s where it would happen. Knowing that doesn’t change anything, though. Pidge has nowhere else to go. Fear has her heart thudding hard in her chest, hands numb with anxiety._

_Small, nimble fingers curl around the switchblade in her pocket instead of her cell phone. Her heart screams for her older brother, but her mind reminds her that she got herself into this. Now she has to get herself out. How many nights did Matt have to face people like this alone with no backup? If he can do it, then so can she._

_She has to._

_The footsteps from behind are right on top of her now, and she spins on her feet to face them. Three guys all ranging in height, but of course, all taller than her. They stand like giants compared to the young woman. Glare fierce, she snarls at their angry glares._

_“What the hell do you want?”_

_The one in the middle with a skull cap sports a five o’ clock shadow, and steps towards her. He must be the leader of the trio since the other two don’t speak up. Sickly pale skin and dark eyes, the guy forces Pidge back a step as he approaches._

Stand your ground, _she reminds herself, refusing to give these men the satisfaction of seeing her afraid._

_“You know what we want, you little thief. You stole from us. Nobody gets away with that.”_

_“I didn’t steal shit,” she snaps. “You jipped me what I was owed. I took what I won and that’s it.”_

_His smile unsettles Pidge. Her grip tightens on her weapon, tension leaving her muscles tight in order to spring into action._

_“You must be new around here. See, sweetheart, the deal is we give you what we want. Not what you deserve. It takes a lot to keep a ring opened. We’re just taking the dues owed in order to let you fight.”_

_“You're taking my hard-earned cash, you scumbag.”_

_Rolling his eyes, he scoffs. Then he lunges forward, hands curling into the front of her oversized sweatshirt. A sharp gasp escapes her before the air whooshed from her lungs, back colliding hard as she’s thrown up against the stone of the building. Pidge grits her teeth, panic settling in while she tries to maintain a fierce front._

_A hard feat when the other two crowd around her leaving no space to escape._

_“Hey!”_

_Glancing to her left, a few feet away, stands a young man. The air of nonchalance and ease in which he holds himself jarring to her current situation. But the distraction he causes loosens the man’s grip on her sweatshirt. She waits, ready to pull away when the moment is right. Whoever the guy is, she doesn’t care as long as she can get away unscathed._

_“What you guys couldn’t find somebody bigger to inflate your egos? Instead, you chose a baby bird?”_

_“Who are you?” one of the men asks, but the leader hums in thought._

_“I know you.” A cunning grin splits the man’s face. “Yeah, yeah, you’re Leandro Sanchez. Man, it’s always a pleasure to watch you get the shit knocked out of you. Good one tonight, I can see.”_

_Upon closer inspection, Pidge notes hints of bruising on his tanned skin. Specks of dried blood decorate his shirt, the cause a nasty split cutting through his bottom lip._

_Leandro shrugs, returning a smug grin. “People pay top dollar to watch a beautiful face get beat.”_

_“Whatever,” the leader dismisses, “What the hell do you want? We’re in the middle of something.”_

_“Yeah, I can see, beating up little girls. Your mothers would be proud.”_

_The grip on her tightens again, pushing her harder against the wall. She grits her teeth, scowl deepening._

_“Little girl or not, she’s a thief.”_

_“I doubt what she took from you had much impact. Let her go, she ain’t worth it.”_

_Pidge blinks in shock._ Is...is this guy really trying to defend me? _She wonders with awe. A complete stranger, who for all intents and purposes, stumbled upon this situation, is trying to reason with her attackers._

_“Oh, trust me, she’s worth it. You should know better than anyone, Sanchez, how this world works. Nobody gets away scot-free.”_

_Leandro shrugs, somehow maintaining that air of careless abandon. He shows no signs of nerves or care. Yet, he answers without pause, offering. “Then take it out on me. Jeez, if you’re insistent in inflating your egos, make it worth it. Me against you three. If I lose, I’ll pay what she stole, but if I win, you lowlifes go on your merry way.”_

_The guy on her left, takes a threatening step towards the stranger, stopping when a disbelieving laugh cuts through the quiet of the street. Pidge’s eyes are big behind her wire-frame glasses, floored by the proposition. She wants to speak up, defend this stranger because that’s not fair. He doesn’t need to do that. This was her fault and he shouldn’t have to pay that price._

_“Cocky, are we? You think you can actually take us?” The leader mocks._

_But those lazy blue eyes of the stranger are now challenging - dark and piercing in their glare. It’s not cockiness. No, the way broad shoulders pull back and make his t-shirt tight, reveals what Pidge assumes to be a swimmer’s physique. Leandro holds himself with true confidence, an unwavering certainty that he can handle these three. A fact Pidge only believes because of how he holds himself._

_Three against one means a hard loss. The only time people honestly come out on top, in Pidge’s opinion, are stupid action movies. They aren’t in Hollywood, though._

_“Not think, I know,” replies the stranger._

_Pidge stumbles as she’s pulled from the wall and shoved down the sidewalk. She stumbles over her feet, staring over her shoulder in disbelief._

_“Fine. You sound like you need to learn your place anyway.” The leader turns towards her with a dismissive wave. “I’d run along now before I change my mind.”_

_Leandro drops into a fighting stance as the other two men approach. She can’t move, though. Her mind tells her to go, the flight response thrumming through her veins in a desperate need to survive. Yet, her heart aches, cringing as Leandro takes a mean left hook to the jaw. Pidge swears she can see blood spray as his head snaps to the side._

_The stranger stays on his feet, blocking the hits and dealing out harsh blows when he can. But three on one leaves Leandro constantly on the defensive. So, when a fist makes it through one of his blocks and catches him in the face, the fight ends. He stumbles back; the three attacking like vultures._

_Pidge trembles with nerves, breaths ragged. She doesn’t think. If she does, then she knows she’ll back out. Her feet slap against the concrete, launching herself without care onto the leader’s back._

_Being small has advantages. A fact that Matt taught her from a young age. She may not have a lot of strength or weight on her side, but for what she lacks, she makes up in agility and endurance._

_Her arms slip around the leader’s throat, legs cinched tight around the man’s waist. The chokehold throws the leader into a panic, clawing at Pidge’s limbs, trying to get at her face. She buries it into the back of his neck, pushing forward to add to the constriction. Whatever is happening with Leandro and the other two, she doesn’t know. All of her focus has to stay on her opponent._

_Leandro saved her. She doesn’t intend to let that be for naught._

_Even when the cool metal of the streetlight slams against her spine, she clenches her jaw and squeezes harder._ Fight, fight, fight, _the single word a running mantra in her mind. Her arms burn from the blunt nails, and still, she holds on. Arms trembling, the leader’s grip wavering as he tugs in desperation, Pidge maintains. When he finally drops to a knee, she doesn’t relent - only releases her legs in order to use height as an added leverage. He chokes, red in the face, limbs growing weaker._

_Ten seconds. From the moment she jumped on the leader’s back to the moment he goes limp in unconsciousness, ten seconds pass. To her, though, it was minutes._

_Her breaths are ragged, arms trembling as she stumbles back. She leans forward, hands on her knees to support herself. The adrenaline of the fight still runs hot through her, leaving her wired and jittery._

_Which is no surprise why she lurches away from the hand that comes down on her shoulder. Leandro raises his hands in surrender, chest heaving under a more rumpled gray shirt. Fresh blood spatters the clothing thanks to a newly opened split lip. She notes swelling around his sharp jaw, left eye puffy and red. He doesn’t stand at his full height, hunched in the slightest._

_“Sorry,” he says, maintaining his distance. A muffled groan sounds from behind him, and Pidge looks to see the other two guys on the ground, slow to get to their feet. Already, the leader has started to regain consciousness._

_Leandro must note the look of panic that crosses Pidge’s face because he moves towards her, speaking low. “Look, I know you don’t know me, but we need to get out of here now. Once these guys are back on their feet, we’re going to have some serious fucking issues.”_

_She doesn’t need to be told twice. These men have no honor. They won’t let this go even though Leandro won…sort of._

_Her nod is all he needs before he nudges her forward. She takes one last look back before catching up to the stranger who has now broken out in a dead run._

_“Fucking long legged people,” she mutters, pushing herself twice as hard to keep up._

_The leftover adrenaline allows her to keep pace, following his quick and confusing direction. When they finally stop, blocks away from the fight, and utterly spent, Pidge realizes that he was trying to make it hard for them to follow._

_Her lungs_ hurt, _throat burning. She trembles, exhaustion and the anxiety finally catching up with her. Leandro’s eyes are screwed shut, face pinched in pain as he leans back, hands on his waist, and breathes. Pidge, on the other hand, curls forward, elbows on her knees and gasps._

_“Stand up,” Leandro orders between gulps of air. She stares, confusion in her hazel eyes before he explains, “It’s easier to breathe that way.”_

_Reluctant, she does as he says, relief spreading through her body as she takes bigger, deeper breaths. They stay like that, quiet while each catches their breaths. Everything begins to catch up to her, but she stows it away. She’ll deal with it once she makes it home. Once she can be alone and break it all down._

_So, for now, she buries it, straightens herself and takes a good look at the stranger. He’s touching his lip, grimacing at the swollen and tender skin._

_“Why’d you do that?”_

_Leandro’s thin eyebrows furrow together, bottom lip with the split puffed out, making it look like he has a pout. “Help you?”_

_Pidge rolls her eyes. “No, the other thing. Yes, help me. Why?”_

_Leandro chuckles then shrugs his shoulders. “You look like you needed it.”_

_Another time, a different situation, Pidge knows that she would have spouted off something like “well, I didn’t need it.” Instead, she nods, pushing her glasses up her nose._

_“Thanks.”_

_“You’re welcome. Thanks for helping out.”_

_This time, Pidge shrugs. “Didn’t seem right that you were going to take a beating for something you didn’t do.”_

_He sticks his hand out, knuckles raw. “Lance McClain.”_

_“They called you Leandro,” Pidge says, nose scrunched in confusion._

_“Ring name. Some places I fight at it’s better if they don’t know who I really am.”_

_Lance’s hand remains outstretched between them, waiting. She grips it with a firm shake. “Katie Holt, but you can call me, Pidge.”_

_For the first time tonight, she sees a genuine smile on the man. Boyish, but bright, and she can’t help smiling back._

_“Nice to meet you, Pidge.”_

But unlike then, she can’t help. No, she has to sit here and watch. Watch as Lance falls to a knee, right brow bleeding, and fail to block the jab. He sways--ocean eyes dazed, but he doesn’t fall.

“Come on, Lance!” Hunk’s voice booming over the crowd. Keith has disappeared into the abyss of onlookers, Pidge noting the dark head of hair right at the edge of the ring.

She wants to move, to be right there for him like he is for her every fight. Her body won’t let her. Anxiety, fear, it keeps her stationed - expressing itself in blanched knuckles and torn lips.

Lance manages to block the next fist, pushing up on unsteady legs to land his own hit. The fighter doesn’t flinch, dodging the sloppy haymaker. Pidge squeezes her eyes shut, not wanting to watch. She hears it just fine as Lance’s body connects with the black mat.

Her stomach rolls with nausea while the crowd’s thunderous voices fill the small space. Cold metal settles over her hand, and she looks down to Shiro. Understanding eyes gaze back at her, but she can see the unease hidden behind the strong facade. They win a lot, however, that doesn’t mean they win every time. So, when the losses hit, they hit hard.

Hunk’s cleared a path through the crowd, Keith supporting a very unsteady Lance. Helping Keith, Hunk grabs his friend to help support him back to their spot. As always, Lance plasters on a wide smile when he sees the others. He pats both Hunk and Keith, the two sharing an uncertain look before releasing him as asked.

Lance stays upright, to his credit, wincing as he rolls his shoulders. “Well, that sucked,” he comments, earning half smiles from the crew.

Pidge bites her tongue, ready to delve into a long analysis of the fight, a way to expel her nervous energy. She holds back, though. The last thing he needs after a loss is to have every move criticized.

“You held your ground, though,” Shiro points out, trying to keep Lance’s confidence up.

The grin falls flat despite his effort. “Always do,” he says, the words forced, unnatural with Lance’s typically optimistic attitude. Shiro manages to maintain an air of reassurance, but Pidge sees the way his shoulders droop just a quarter of an inch; how his dark eyes get a little more lost.

Hunk wraps an arm gently around Lance’s shoulders, guiding him to the crate where he suggests taking a seat. Of course, Lance brushes the suggestion off, acting as though his face doesn’t hurt like a motherfucker or how his muscles must be quivering with exhaustion. Pidge wants to say something, call him out.

Keith does instead.

“Rest, Lance. It’s better to be able to walk out than be carried.”

Harsh words, in Pidge’s opinion, yet Lance relents and takes a seat. With the fighter finally relaxing, Keith moves on with business.

“Who’s next, Pidge?”

Her attention flickers from Lance to Keith. She draws in a quick breath, shakes the fight, the memories, all of it from her mind, and refocuses.

“You.”

And like that, they move on, going through the motions, preparing for what the ring will take or reward. As Keith warms up, Shiro and him trading words on the current fight, Pidge slides off the crate and to the floor with Lance. She doesn’t say anything to the curious look he shoots her. Instead, she presses up against his side, arm to arm, and rests her head on his shoulder.

He pats her head, murmuring, “I’m good, Pidgeon.”

“I know,” she answers. They both are because they’re together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sips tea and crosses legs while on the sofa* 
> 
> *clears throat* I LOVE THESE TWO!! 
> 
> Now, with that out of the way let's get down to business. Another favorite chapter of mine here! When I was thinking this story up, one of the first scenes I imagined was the flashback with Pidge and Lance. I'm also super proud of the way that the present and past fight flow together and share in those small details. 
> 
> Little by little, throughout the chapters, you'll start to get the backstories of how each member of Voltron met one another. I might not do a flashback for everyone because either way, all their backstories will come out, but there are a couple already thought up and written out. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this! We're slowly getting to the major plot point! Next chapter, we get Hunk and Keith   
> ヽ(^◇^*)/
> 
> See you next time!


	8. A Brewing Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk + Keith = Bonding Moment + True BrOTP 
> 
> Keith + Change = Good Friend
> 
> Hunk = Pure Damn Cinnamon Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Enters door carrying Kleenex for Red Lion* I'm sorry for making you cry because it took me forever to update!!! 
> 
> *Catering follows behind with baked goods for all my readers as an apology* 
> 
> I'm so, so sorry for the long wait!! I was out of town for a weekend, and I've been slammed with work. I apologize! But I'm back! NEW CHAPTER!!! ヽ(^◇^*)/
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to everyone who reads this! I love you! And extra love to the following amazing people for their beautiful comments: Loser_Lesbian, slyphantomm, TheGoblinKing111, Annabethstolepipersbreakfast, and Red Lion. Thank You!
> 
> Enjoy!

The shop is dead. Their final customer walks out the door, waving goodbye to the receptionist before driving off into the darkening evening. Now, all that remains is clean-up work. 

Keith hates it. 

He sighs, pushing his bangs back with the back of a gloved hand and starts putting all of his tools back in their designated spot. 

Sal’s Auto wasn’t a big set-up. A quaint little mechanic shop in the heart of the city, eight blocks from the apartment he shares with Hunk. Perfect for the summer and a bitch during the winter. Fortunately, winter has another month before its arrival. 

A few vehicles remain in the shop, still needing more repairs, each in various stages of completeness. Glancing at the clock, Keith wonders if perhaps he could knock out another car, especially since Hunk has yet to stop his work on the rundown Fiesta. He doesn’t have to wait for his friend, but leaving without Hunk means that he’ll have to cook, and he’s been spoiled by his cooking. Cup ramen no longer suffices when Hunk has a quick ramen that he makes homemade. 

So, he takes his time, taking care to ensure all of his tools are in their proper place. 

Everyone has cleared out by now, meaning his two other coworkers, the receptionist, and the other mechanics, leaving him and Hunk. Sal can be found in his office, grumbling at his computer screen. He won’t be leaving for another couple of hours. 

Filing away the paperwork in their proper plastic protective covers, oil and grease wiped clean, and floor space swept, Keith leans back against his workbench. Hunk has yet to stop work, drawing thick, dark eyebrows together in concern. 

By now, he would have called it quits, not wanting to hold Sal up from closing. Instead, Hunk continues to work with a blind intensity. That is until a sharp crack rings out in the silent shop followed by a curse.

“Everything okay?” Keith asks. 

Hunk’s hands rest on the car, leaned over the engine with his head down looking like a man praying for patience. A heavy breath escapes him, warm brown eyes meeting Keith’s over his shoulder, “Yeah.” 

Keith may not be as close to Hunk as Lance, but over the past few months, he has learned to read his friend pretty well. So, even though he says one thing, he knows that something deeper has him burdened. 

“Look, I know I’m not really good at talking with people, and I don’t expect you to open up to me, but if there’s ever something on your mind-” 

The bang of the hood slamming shut startles Keith, eyes growing wide as he stares at his friend’s back. 

“This situation sucks! I’m finally on track to getting things back to normal with Shay, and then last night…” Hunk trails off, fists clenched at his sides, breaths sharp. 

“I guess there is something on your mind,” Keith comments, shock fading to concern as he comes to stand beside his friend. Hunk starts pacing while he leans back against the hood of the vehicle. 

“I came to the Castle of Lions because I had heard of the way Coran protected the fighters. The other rings, they were every man for themselves. No loyalties, and if you weren’t careful you wouldn’t make it home.” 

Keith remembers those days, fists clenching tight at his sides because it was a toss-up every night. Bruises or a stab wound. Broken bones or a gunshot. A dangerous game of roulette that many fighters played each night they walked into a ring and each time they left. Everyone was your enemy. There was no escape, that is until you got an invite to the Castle of Lions. 

“And last night,” Hunk seethes, coming to a halt. He stares off into the distance, Keith recalling the events from less than twenty-four hours ago. 

It was a rough night, Keith mentally slapping himself for being ignorant of Hunk’s pain. 

“The Royals push it. They’ve been pushing it from day one, and every time they get in the ring. Nobody else does that, not even the Galra who are known for their brutality. Shay can’t even open up her left eye this morning. Slav said she’s concussed, and...it shouldn’t have gotten that far. But they wouldn’t let her tap!” 

His knuckles turn white with pressure, Keith grinding his teeth in frustration. He hates seeing his friend hurting. Things were finally better between the two fighters, Hunk no longer depressed baking to cope with the conflict between him and Shay. Now, his girlfriend is laid up with some serious injuries. 

Sure, what they do isn’t safe. Injuries like Shay’s happen all the time, especially if you take enough hits to the face. The issue, though, has nothing to do with the injury. No, it has everything to do with the fact that the Royals don’t give their opponents a chance to tap or call stop. They pummel them until they go limp, pushing even that limit and manage to sneak a couple of extra hits in without most noticing. Unless you’re watching for it. 

Voltron, from the beginning, has watched the Royals closely. Lotor and his slimy charisma rubbed Keith wrong from the moment they met. Of course, Lance was charmed by the man’s swagger until he was bleeding and broken on the mat thanks to the posh asshole. After that, the team became the crew’s number one interest. Yet, they rarely fight one another. Instead, the Royals will go against other crews, demolishing them with a brutality that leaves Keith unsettled. 

Without a doubt, the Royals fight for nothing more than pride. When your motive is self-serving, you don’t care that the world burns so long as you are standing in the ashes -- like an arrogant government who turns a blind eye to the injustices of their people for more money in their fat wallets. So, Keith burns with frustration because with every fight the Royals attack people they know and care about, and they are helpless to end it. 

A noisy breath leaves Hunk. Tension drains from his bunched shoulders, color returning to blanched knuckles while his enraged features smooth out into melancholic defeat.

 “I just hate that I can’t do anything,” Hunk admits. It hits Keith hard just how powerless they are in an environment where they are supposed to be unconstrained. Voltron had to stop Hunk last night to make sure he didn't hurt the Royals and bring down the wrath of the Unilu. 

“Listen, man...” A pause, small enough for Keith to draw in a deep breath. 

The word vulnerable and Keith would never be put in the same sentence. Except, Keith has tried in the last year to be a better friend, to grow out of that hard, protective shell in order to get closer to the people he cares about. 

“Out of our crew, you’ve always impressed me the most. It’s no secret that you’re the gentlest of us, but despite that, you’re always the first to stand at the defense of your friends and family. You aren’t helpless, Hunk. You being there to drag us out of the ring, standing up for us when other crews don’t back down, all despite the fact that you hate conflict, that’s what counts. We need you. You’re doing more than you know.” 

When soft, dewy brown eyes meet dark indigo ones, Keith melts. Not just because Hunk has that effect on most people, but because of the emotion that brims in those warm eyes remind Keith of what he has overcome. These people, his crew, they’ve helped shape him into a man he’s proud of. 

No warning, Hunk grabs him by his shoulders, yanking him into his chest and squeezes. It knocks the breath from Keith, but he smiles, barely getting his arms around the wide shoulders of his friend. 

“Thank you,” the words spoken right at his ear before Hunk releases him. Keith stumbles back a step as those muscled arms hold him at arm’s length. The smile that stretches across the man’s face stays gentle, reminding Keith of lazy summer days at the park. 

“Look at you, you’re pep talks are getting better.” Keith rolls his eyes. He almost walks away, but Hunk tightens his grip. “Seriously, though, you said a lot about me, but you’ve impressed me a lot too, man. I know that you don’t think you did well in Shiro’s absence. That you failed us in some way. That’s not true, Keith. I’m proud of the leader you’ve become. None of us doubt you, and even with Shiro back now, we’re still following your lead.”  

The shock leaves him stunned for a moment before the corners of his lips curl upwards. His chest lighter as he takes a breath, a weight, he didn’t realize, now gone. Bashful, he tries to hide behind his bangs, muttering a quick, “Thanks.” 

Hunk squeezes him once more, letting him go and starts to clean up his work station. The car still needs more work, the air heavy with oil and exhaust. Keith helps while the grumbling in his stomach reminds him that it’s way past normal feeding time. 

“Hey, speaking of, how is Shiro?” 

“Good, as far as I know,” Keith answers. At least, he assumes his friend is. With Shiro back, the crew is once again complete. 

For the last year, a Shiro shaped hole has haunted them. To say things have been hard, would be an understatement. He didn’t know how to lead the others. Not to mention, he was filling the shoes of the greatest fighter at the Castle of Lions, even on the streets, and someone whose leadership skills were incomparable. Keith could hardly talk with strangers without scaring them off due to his off standish persona. So, when the others looked to him to lead in their friend’s place, Keith floundered. Hunk may say he has done a good job, but he doesn’t quite believe that himself. He’s working on that. 

Hunk hums in assent, wiping up some split grease from his workbench.  “I’m happy to hear that. I was worried about him after his first fight back, but he seems to be taking everything in stride.” 

“That’s Shiro for you.” 

The two share a quick laugh, knowing that despite all that Shiro has suffered, most of which they don’t even know, he has to be one of the most well-adjusted people they’ve met. 

Several more minutes pass, the two cleaning in silence. Sal peeks out of his office, scolding the two of them for staying late. Keith rolls his eyes while Hunk placates the man. A quick change out of their stained work uniforms, the fighters are walking down the street, jackets zipped up and faces buried beneath the collars. 

Winter has arrived bringing frigid temperatures that leave noses dripping. In the morning, it was warmer, now though, without the heat of the sun, the wind cuts through Keith’s leather jacket burying down into his bones. Hunk removes his scarf and slings it around Keith’s neck, wrapping it once. 

“I told you to grab at least a hat this morning,” He chides, pulling down on the yellow skull cap he wears. 

Keith, in response, sticks his tongue out. 

Headlights wash over their bodies, the evening rush beginning to calm down, leaving fewer cars idling in the street. Compared to the dead of night when Voltron heads home, the world is loud, filled with the rumbling of car engines, chattering people on their phones, and music flowing from quaint little restaurants. He used to love silence. Now, though, he’s grown to appreciate the background noises. All thanks to a certain Cuban boy who never can stop running his mouth. 

Hunk nudges him, dragging Keith from his musings. “What are you thinking about?” 

“Lance,” he answers without thinking. It takes him a second to realize he said that aloud, gaze cutting to his friend who wears a teasing grin. 

“Oh, are you now?” 

He rolls his eyes at Hunk’s suggestive tone. “Not like that. I was just thinking about the fact that he never stops talking,” Keith defends, burying his face in the knitted yellow scarf to hide the faint tinge of pink he feels on his cheeks.  

A little chuckle, Hunk nodding in agreeance. “You know, he talks a lot about you now. He’s all like, ‘Keith showed me this’ or ‘Keith did this super cool move today’ or ‘Keith’s so good with kids.’” 

If Keith wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now. He clears his throat, hoping it doesn’t crack. “He’s just excited to become a better fighter.” 

“Suuuure,” Hunk draws out with a playful smirk. 

A sigh escapes his dry lips, eyes slipping shut for a brief second. Letting a silence drift between them. Hunk has been like this for months. The issue has to do with timing because what he implies is true. Keith does have feelings, and he knows that Lance does too. But Shiro was gone, and then the Royals showed up, and every moment felt like the wrong one. It would no longer be a problem if he knew what the Royals were up to, though. 

“Lotor has to be planning something.” 

They cross the busy street, jogging the last few steps to miss the braking vehicles. 

Humming agreeance, the lighthearted gleam of Hunk turns somber. “I agree, but the question is what?” 

“Pidge has been writing down some patterns she’s noticed. According to her, the Royals have fought every fighter in each major crew. She’s also realized that in each first fight they tap out.” 

“But then in every fight, after they demolish the fighter or at least try to they’ll tap if they know they’re going to lose,” Hunk adds. He scratches the back of his neck, face pinched in deep thought while maneuvering through the crowded street. 

A train stop is nearby, the sidewalks clogged with the final stream of employees heading home. Keith buries his chin into the scarf, scowling. The problem with the Royals, other than they’re a pain in the ass, is that they are new. Nobody has information on them. Crews that have been around for some time, like the Blades or the Galra, have stories. Talk to anybody in the underground fighting scene and you can learn whole backstories. That happens to be the opposite with Lotor and his members. 

“Keith, I think...I think Lotor is learning everybody’s strengths and weaknesses.” 

“How?” 

“Well, it’s not all that different from what we do. We analyze every fight, keep tabs on the fighters we struggle against. They only tap during the first fight or in a losing fight. First fights are all unknowns. Everything is new during that fight -- how somebody blocks, their style. So, they fight until they learn that and then tap. The next time, they have an idea of what they’re up against and can better counter it.” 

“And,” Keith continues, “if they are going to lose, they tap because there’s something they learned that they didn’t account for.” 

A sharp curse spills out from under his breath. “Nothing against the Castle rules, just clever.” 

“Yeah,” Hunk unwittingly admits. “It still doesn’t explain why they’re doing that, though. The Castle of Lions doesn’t keep track of who’s better.” 

“Not yet, they don't. Coran has held tournaments in the past like the Champion fight.” 

“Do you think he’s considering another one?” 

Keith clenches his jaw, determination hardening his gaze. “I don’t know, but if he is, we’re not going to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All inspiration for this chapter goes to the beautiful scene in Season 7 Episode 9 with Hunk and Keith. Pretty sure I squealed with joy after that scene lol. It was so touching and perfect and I wanted to recreate that because it really was a vital scene for those characters. 
> 
> Plus, we get to learn a little more about what the Royals are planning. AND YES, I BEAT UP SHAY BUT HER BIG STRONG, BOYFRIEND, HUNK WAS THERE TO CARE FOR HER!! I love those two as a couple and am excited for future chapters with them. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has stuck with me so far! I apologize for the short chapter, but the next one will gladly make up for it ;) 
> 
> Coming up: Matt being Matt, Shiro fighting, and new developments. See you guys soon!


	9. Takes One to Know One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allura + Gym Clothes = Unspeakable beauty + Envy from everyone 
> 
> Matt = Matt Being Matt 
> 
> Shiro + New Fighter = D R A M A ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT DIDN'T TAKE FOREVER! 
> 
> I am so excited about this chapter! So stop reading this and go read it so you can be just as excited!!
> 
> Thank you tons to everyone who reads and leaves kudos. Also, major shout out to the following: slyphantomm, Winner_wlw, ImyourCardiganAngel, and Red Lion. Your comments always brighten my day!

Even in the middle of the week, the Castle of Lions has more people crammed into the basement than building code allows. Shiro loves it. The heady scent of adrenaline that Shiro only knows how to describe by the sharp tang of blood on the tongue, the acrid smell of days old B.O., how the hair on his arms stands at attention with each impending fight, the way his eyes track each moving figure with a tactical edge -- ready to take them down in three moves or less, and how the roaring cheers deafen him. 

Voltron stands in their typical spot, Allura joining them for the night. After her first night, she wasn’t sure if she was welcomed back. It took a few weeks of reassuring her and Pidge stealing her number from Shiro’s phone to message her personally before she was convinced. Unlike last time, though, Allura has decided to wear her workout clothes -- tight charcoal gray knit leggings and a pink sports bra. Her sweatshirt (actually one of Shiro’s old ones) sits tied around her waist. Although, it does little to hide the well-sculpted physique the ex-soldier has worked to maintain. 

Shiro knows he heard a couple of guys making jealous remarks on how they wished they could have abs like her. 

He glances over his friend, a soft-hearted smile gracing his lips. She listens intently to Pidge argue with Hunk about single modulation versus double modulation. Amusement twists those pink lips into a shy smile, thin eyebrows drawn in concentration as she tries to pay attention.

Allura loves to learn. The woman spends most of her free time reading a vast variety of books on different subjects. It never ceases to amaze Shiro how much knowledge swims inside her mind. So, if she has the opportunity to learn something that she knows nothing about, she’ll listen for hours on end until she has a decent grasp. 

His gaze catches on a few silvery lines and puckered flesh on Allura’s tawny skin. It draws his smile down into a faint frown, mentally tracing each of his scars on his body.

They were soldiers. Scars were inevitable after the horrors they faced, not just physical but emotional and mental too. He just hates seeing the evidence of their suffering, especially on someone who has been his stability in the chaos of his life. However, comfort comes with the pain. Knowing that Allura understands eases that hollowness in his chest, but it doesn’t stop the guilt of not being able to protect her as she has done for him.

Keith and Lance trade thoughts on the current fight off to his right. He turns his attention to the ring for a moment, watching through the crowd as the two females go at it. Similar builds, both of average stature. It makes for a pretty even fight. Except for skill level, of course. As he watches, though, they seem to be on par with one another. The one with caramel-colored hair and freckles catches the swinging kick of the heavily inked woman. It’s an incredible block followed by a fist straight to the face. Shiro doesn’t flinch, unlike the crowd. 

The tattooed woman falls to the mat, out of it as she struggles to get to her feet. When her arms don’t keep her upright, she collapses back on the mat, tapping out with a dull slap of her hand. Praise fills the tight space, ringing and overwhelming as with every fight. 

 While the ring empties, Shiro looks around the crowd. That’s how he spots Matt making his way towards his crew. The Rebel leader ruffles Lance’s hair in greeting, laughing when the fighter shoves him away with a petulant frown trying to fix what Matt messed up. Pidge stops the conversation for half a second to say hi to her brother before continuing her debacle. 

“Her flesh and blood, and all she can say is, ‘hey, you meme-loving-fuck,’” Matt pouts, leaning into Shiro’s left side. 

“Hi to you too, Matt,” he greets with a teasing grin that Matt ignores, sighing in sadness. Until he takes in Allura. Then he straightens up, slapping Shiro in the arm while whisper shouting. 

“Shiro, Shiro, who is that? Why is she so beautiful? Who, man?” 

He grabs Matt by the wrist to stop the incessant beating, releasing his own sigh. “That’s my friend, Allura. I’ve told you about her before.” 

“Yeah, but you never told me you were best friends with a goddess!” 

Shiro rolls his eyes, letting go of Matt. “Aren’t you already in love with that physics girl you met at the bar?” 

Matt has yet to take his eyes of Allura, but he still answers Shiro without delay. “I mean yeah, but I’m not going to ignore perfection when it’s feet away from me.” 

Allura can easily hear their conversation, but Shiro knows that she is engrossed in the still ongoing debate between the two fighters. Despite that, by the end of the night, Matt will make a fool of himself and Allura will enjoy making the guy squirm. 

“Do you have a full crew yet?” Shiro asks. 

That draws Matt’s attention off of Allura. He smirks, pride gleaming in those hazel eyes. “Oh yeah. Got that new guy from the bar.” 

Shiro nods, excited for his friend. It’s stressful to be down a man. Remorse burns hotly in his gut knowing that Voltron had to cope with that stress while he was away. But he pushes that aside, letting his voice adopt a teasing lilt. 

“Hope he’s good and you didn’t bribe some poor guy into getting his ass handed to him.” 

Matt rolls his eyes, a sly grin toying his mouth. “I don’t need to bribe people, Shiro. I have a natural charm.” 

A snort escapes him, turning his attention back to the ring. Two new fighters dance around each other, fresh and ready for blood. 

“Well, I should get going. The Rebels are surely floundering without their fearless leader,” Matt says, wiggling his eyebrows at Shiro, who sighs in exasperation and shoves him into the crowd without another word. 

The debate between Hunk and Pidge comes to a truce, neither giving an inch in their belief but calling an end for the time being. Allura looks over her shoulder, perfectly shaped eyebrow raised in question. He waves off the look knowing that Matt will be back later and he’ll have to watch that inevitable train-wreck as he introduces his two friends. Keith and Lance continue to stand close, murmuring their critiques of the current fight. 

Minutes tick by, an hour flying coming and going. Each fight in the ring varies in length and brutality. It entices the crowd, the vibe electric with excitement each time a new set of fighters enter. 

Keith is the first of the Voltron crew to fight for the night. His fight goes quick. He battles with deadly efficiency, aiming for tender spots that force the opponent to drop their guard and leave them exposed for finishing blows. The challenger has a swollen left eye and dark bruises blooming over his tanned skin. On the other hand, Keith walked away with a split lip and bloodied knuckles. 

After a few more, Hunk gets in the ring, forcing his opponent to tap out when he pins them with a leg bar that almost makes the man beg. Bruises will blossom overnight but for the most part, he walks away unscathed. 

Shiro does his stretches, knowing his turn will be soon. Allura stays at his side, watching with a critical eye as he moves. She has been his pseudo physical therapist since the injury. Even now, after he’s proven that he can move with full range and has adapted fully to the prosthetic, Allura remains on edge, ready to pull him back if she thinks he has pushed himself too far. He would argue, but he knows that the only way to get Allura to relax is to continue to show her his progress -- meaning more fights. 

“Who’s he fighting, Pidge?” 

“New guy named Adam. I don’t know anything about him.” 

Keith’s brows draw together in thought, lips pursed. Shiro listens but keeps his questions to himself. Knowing who he is going up against has perks, however, he doesn’t need those details. You never know a person’s strength in a fight until you’re in the ring. 

“Is he with a crew?” Keith questions. 

Pidge scowls, glaring at a fixed point somewhere in the crowd. “He’s with the Rebels.” 

That grabs Shiro’s attention. He stops mid-stretch, a growing smirk toying his lips. 

“You mean the new guy Matt recruited?” 

“Yep.” 

A chuckle escapes the fighter. “Well, no wonder Matt was so excited then. He probably thinks he can gain an edge over us with this new fighter.” 

Lance scoffs, “Yeah, right! You’re the freaking Champion. Nobody stands a chance, especially some newbie.” 

Shiro shakes his head in amusement at the boasting. He knows better though than to let that title get to his head. The only thing worse than underestimating your opponent is thinking that you’re invincible. 

“Champion?” Allura asks, but the current fight ends. 

A roar of celebration thunders in the basement. The ring empties, Allura’s question forgotten because Shiro’s turn has arrived. Voltron sobers up wearing serious faces that mirror stone statues. Keith squeezes his shoulder, the barest hint of an encouraging grin on his lips. 

It ignites that fire inside him, the flames stoked to an inferno as he pushes through the crowd. He belongs here. Child Shiro never wanted to be a fighter, but the universe decided that he would have grit and iron and fire-forged into his being. Fate decided long before that no matter the trials, no matter how battered and broken he became, he would fight because it’s all he can do. 

So, he stands at the edge of the makeshift ring of onlookers, bare soles on the vinyl mat. One single breath, savoring the moment before the battle, then he steps in. 

Across from him, a man slips through the crowd. Shiro sucks in a sharp breath because _fuck, he’s gorgeous._ His gaze traces over the fighter, drinking in the warm, bronze skin and broad shoulders-- _stop it._

Seconds tick by, precious seconds that the man could have used to his advantage as he too now stands inside the ring. Shiro scolds himself for getting distracted so easily. The war may be over, but the threat never disappears. 

_Adam,_ the fighter reminds himself of his opponent’s name, settling into an easy stance while his challenger takes him in with a calculating look. He knows nothing and the only way to learn anything is to make the first step. So, while Adam takes stock, Shiro takes advantage. 

Two seconds to cross the ten feet of space between them. Adam’s hands are up, attention zeroed in on Shiro. He throws a quick right hook, blocking Shiro’s own, but momentum favors the attacker. Shiro sweeps his arm around the back of Adam’s neck, bringing him down into a headlock. His knee shoots up into his opponent’s chest. Blocked and then Adam throws him off balance with a leg behind his, right arm forced away from its grip around his head before he twists away. 

Pain blossoms across his back, stumbling forward from the well-aimed kick. He turns, ducking low to miss the swinging kick aimed for his head. Shiro pops up, bringing his knee up into Adam’s chest. Hands sink into soft hair and force Adam’s face down into his knee. 

Yells erupt around them as Adam stumbles back, tears in his eyes and teeth tainted red in a...grin? He doesn’t have time to ponder why the guy is smiling. Doesn’t care either because he knows already. There is no better feeling than knowing you’re in for a good fight. 

Shiro lunges. His right hook blocked as Adam’s left fist collides painfully against his face once. Then the right smashes against his jaw, teeth biting into the tender flesh of his tongue. Blood fills his mouth, spewed out in a punched-out gasp when Adam kicks him in the chest. He hits the ground, staring up at his approaching opponent.

_Fuck._

His carbon fiber fingers latch around Adam’s ankle and yank his leg out from underneath him. He twists, landing on his hands. Shiro reaches to grab a leg again, to get him on the ground so that he can pin him. A foot comes flying at his face, barely blocked in time. Instinct drives him as he gets that hold, but then Adam rolls on top of him. 

Long legs straddle his chest, his right arm pinned in the bend of Adam’s knee. The air is punched from his lungs in a sharp _oof._ Their eyes meet, a deadly glint of malice in those green eyes that sent a thrill of excitement racing through Shiro. That look belongs to a warrior -- fearless in the face of danger while grinning through the pain. 

Shiro plants his feet, free arm wrapping around Adam’s head. In one move, he shoves his hips upwards in a thrust, yanks Adam down into the crook of his neck, lifts his leg with his prosthetic, and twists. 

A grunt escapes the fighter as he lands on his back with Shiro pinning him. They are face to face, quick breaths shared. Adam wraps his legs around Shiro, ankles locked, both in a stalemate. His white bangs hang in his face, but Adam’s attention traces over the scar across his nose. The roguish grin that crosses his face throws Shiro for a short second, brows creasing in confusion. 

“What are you going to do, _Captain?”_ Adam grits and Shiro’s stomach drops. 

_How does he know?_

But he can’t focus on that. He snarls, using the fueling fire inside to lift Adam and slam him back into the mat. The crowd goes wild -- a cacophony of noise that Shiro doesn’t hear above the rushing blood in his ears. 

Adam’s legs loosen around him allowing Shiro to break the hold with ease. He slips to the side of the fighter to escape those strong, long legs. Pinning one arm, he shoves him onto his side and brings his flesh and blood arm down several times in a hammer fist. The sudden slap on the mat, halts him mid-hit, staring down at the now bloodied man with heaving breaths. 

Shiro’s lungs burn, veins aflame with white-hot adrenaline that licks its way through his body and clouds his mind with rage. 

He has fought for years, _years,_ to keep his true identity a secret. Learned different fighting styles to hide the ingrained skills that were beaten into his skull. Adjusted to the lack of two metal tags around his neck and became accustomed to that nakedness that was more than an object but an identity. Shiro has been in hiding, even around his own crew for so long. Now, one guy threatens to ruin it all. 

There are rules. Clear rules here at the Castle, but Shiro doesn’t think. Panic, _no,_ survival instinct has him grabbing Adam and yanking him upright. With no shirt to hold the guy in a threatening grip, Shiro grips his shoulder with carbon fiber fingers, letting them bite into golden skin. 

Adam’s narrow features - pointed chin with angular cheekbones and a sharply sloped nose - are cutting, jagged and bold like a fresh-cut diamond. Up close, Shiro notes moss green eyes, but instead of reminding him of the plush plant that carpets forest floors, he is struck by the jarring memory of how that same moss encased long-forgotten bones of an animal in a jungle. 

“How do you know about me?” Shiro growls. 

The crowd has quieted, a mix of concerned and eager whispers filling the space. Shiro knows the Unilu have made their way into the throng of people, ready to pounce if he even twitches wrong. At the same time, that familiar presence his crew brings settles around Shiro. They're there at his back prepared to defend him. 

Blank featured, Adam answers with a measured tone. “Takes one to know one, _sir_.” 

His lips curl back in a snarl, fingers digging deeper into the taut muscles. Adam doesn’t flinch. Not a hint of pain flashed across the man’s features. 

“I suggest you take your hand off my crew, Shiro.” 

Matt’s words have his jaw clenching tight, the threat clear and jarring coming from a close friend. He gets it because, friend or not, a crew is a family, and there are no lengths that Shiro wouldn’t go to protect his. So, his grip loosens and slips away. Shiro steps back, but Adam steps forward. 

His spine goes ramrod straight; muscles coiled tight for a fight. But Adam grins, playful and teasing, confusing the fighter as he leans in. 

“You want to know what I know? Come and find me.” 

With that, he steps away, laughing at Matt as he ruffles the guy’s hair. It breaks the uneasy tension. The crowd’s voices rising once again, forgetting about the incident as Shiro leaves the ring, allowing for the next battle to begin. 

Voltron stands at the edge of the ring, Keith watching him with a calculating gaze. He doesn’t want to talk about it. The new leader of the crew does nothing to stop him from making his way through the crowd and back to their corner. None of them question him, only sparring him quick glances and pretending what almost happened was nothing but a shared fever dream. Allura, however, stares like a hawk eyeing her prey. 

A subtle shake of his head eases the heat in her gaze, but he knows he will have a lot of explaining to do when they leave. 

For now, he leans back against the wall, runs his flesh hand through his damp bangs and breathes. Adam’s words swirl around in his head, the remaining fights a blur as Shiro gets lost in his thoughts. 

_“Takes one to know one, sir.”_

His gaze travels out over the crowd, catching a glimpse of butterscotch colored hair. Eyes narrowing on his target who mirrors Shiro’s position, chatting with Matt. 

He doesn’t have a choice, he decides. Whatever this Adam knows, Shiro has to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHH YES, IT HAS FINALLY HAPPENED!! ADAM IS HERE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! 
> 
> I love this fight and the energy in this, and I hope you guys do too! I wish that we had more Adam in the show, but that's why there is fanfiction. This arc is going to give you all some more insight into Shiro's backstory...so prepare. 
> 
> Also, the friendship between Shiro and Allura is so pure and genuine <3
> 
> Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and tell me what you think about Adam! See you in the next chapter!


	10. Panic Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro & Sadness = Allura Ready to Go to War
> 
> Shiro + Memories = A Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh sorry for the wait, my friends! Life has been crazy busy and my time to write has been very little! But I'm still working on this fic and it's not going to die. 
> 
> This chapter focuses on Shiro and the aftermath of the last chapter. There are some flashbacks and we get to learn more about Shiro's past! 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your love and support! Every kudos and comment brings a smile to my face. Special thanks for the following: AkaneShiro, TheGoblinKing111, slyphantomm, ImyourCardiganAngel, and Espy_Ninja.
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!

“Shiro, please sit. You’re going to wear a path into the floor.” 

Allura’s posh accent washes over Shiro, going in one ear and out the other. He turns on his heel and continues his pacing in their living room. Arms crossed, head down with his jaw clenched tight, he moves back and forth trying to figure out what to do. The man is six foot three inches of anxiety. 

A loud sigh escapes Allura as she stands from the cobalt blue couch, a personal item that she picked to accent the monochromatic colors that Shiro favors. Stepping into her friend’s path, she halts the fighter, gripping his crossed arms. 

“Sit,” she orders, a hint of a plea in her words as she pushes Shiro towards the couch. He scowls, huffing in frustration, but he does sit. 

His leg bounces in anxiousness as Allura takes a seat beside him, uncurling his crossed arms to take a hold of his flesh and blood hand. Immediately, he squeezes her hand, running his right through his hair without getting it caught in the gears of his prosthetic. 

“What am I going to do?” The broken question hits Allura hard in the gut, and she steels her features to hide the pain that rips through her. She has had to watch this man through his worst times, build him up when he tore himself down. So, seeing him so broken up tears Allura up inside. 

“Shiro, tell me what happened?” 

He has yet to speak about what occurred in the ring. Seeing him so close to losing that firm line of control he maintains scared her. Once and only once has she seen Shiro’s control snap. To put it simply, the aftermath was unsightly. 

Allura switches her grip on his hand so that she can rub soothing circles across the tightly coiled muscles. Shiro doesn’t speak, focusing on his breathing which is harsh and verging on hyperventilating. He works through it, slowly. His muscles begin to unwind under Allura’s hand, the grip around her fingers loosening as his breathing slows. 

“I-I have a reputation, Allura. How-he... _everything_ I’ve sacrificed, and he-he just, how can he...it’s just not fair,” he groans, the sound feeble and pained. 

“What did he do?” She asks, leaning into her friend to give him the support he needs. 

Shiro _whines_ , and god, Allura is ready to hunt this man down and rip him apart for making that sound come from Shiro. This soldier who has suffered more than any human should and still has a heart of gold despite all the inhumanity that was inflicted upon him. He could be bitter, mean, and cruel. Instead, he still enjoys life, somehow holding onto a positive frame of mind. 

“Allura, he knows,” he murmurs, so distraught over whatever this fighter has done. “He knows about me. About my military experience. Adam knows who I am.” 

Her perfectly arched brows come together in confusion. “Shiro, I don’t understand. Why is that so bad? Your crew knows that you are a soldier…” 

“They know I’m a soldier. They don’t know of my rank or what happened. Nobody in the fighting ring even knows I’m military. I’ve hidden it for years because I couldn’t let the military know, couldn’t allow that reputation to tarnish what I worked years to build. It, they would-I couldn’t let them label me as another trauma broken soldier who couldn’t adapt. I wouldn’t.” 

And that has Allura tugging her friend to her in a fierce hug, biting her lip and breathing deep to keep the emotions at bay. 

Shiro buries his face into her neck, fighting to not fall apart over something so stupid. But it means so much to Shiro. He lets her squeeze tight, letting her keep him together. 

“What happened...what those people did to me. Allura, I can’t. I can’t let them win. If the higher-ups hear, if anybody ever finds out then they’ll know. They’ll know that all that they rescued was a broken soldier who gave up every piece of themselves to survive. I’ll just...I’ll just be a monster,” he gasps, throat spasming as his dark eyes burn with the threat of tears. 

“No, no, Shiro,” Allura soothes, shaking her head. “You’re not a monster. What they did to you, what they forced you to do. That does not define you. Your heart is full of gold. You are the strongest man I know, and I would follow you into battle any day. None of this defines you.” 

She pulls back from the hug, intertwining her fingers with his. “When you told me about this fighting. I could not understand why. Why, after all the horrors and battles that you fought, would you want to relive that. But I get it now. You fight because it is what makes you feel alive because in war you have no control, but here in a simple ring where it’s just you against another, you are in control again. I get it.” 

Those words break the dam that Shiro fought to keep his tears behind, letting them roll down his cheeks. All he can do is nod, wordlessly agreeing with his friend. Tears shine in her crystal blue gaze as she wipes away a fresh drop from his face. Then she pulls him back to her, grip unyielding and secure; giving him the strength he needs because, without him, Allura never would have had the chance to breathe the fresh air of her family’s gardens again. Only in the afterlife. 

* * *

 

Shiro has had bad ideas. To be fair, though, he rarely does anything without at least a bit of forethought. Standing outside of Quantum Abyss in the middle of winter, breath coming out in white puffs and his hands nearly numb, was at least thought out -- to a degree. 

_"I think you should go and talk to him.”_

_Shiro stares in abject confusion, “How could that possibly be a good idea?”_

_The side-eye he receives sobers him before he sighs in resignation. “I know, but I can’t just ask Matt. He won’t let me get anywhere near the guy, I bet. That or he’ll want to be there to act like some overbearing parent.”_

_Allura shrugs. “Then ask Pidge. You said that she’s Matt’s sister, correct?” He nods, always impressed by the little details that Allura latches onto. “It is clear she would do anything for you, that any of them would. She won’t ask questions either. Ask her to find out when Adam is working and then ask him to talk.”_

Okay, so he didn’t ask Pidge because his paranoia told him that Matt would figure it out and think that Shiro was trying to get revenge. That would lead to a whole fight and would cause a bigger rift to form between the two siblings. 

Instead, he stalked the place, getting lucky on his second night after spotting the man behind the bar. Shiro thought about staying -- about taking a seat at the bar, ordering a drink to calm his nerves and civilly asking Adam to talk after his shift. This is where the bad idea starts because instead, he walked in, saw Adam, and decided to wait outside until the shift was over. 

_I look like a damn stalker._

Which, he does, standing out in the frigid cold, pacing back and forth in the alleyway beside the building. He doesn’t know how much closer to a stereotype he could get. 

Leaning against the unforgiving brick wall, Shiro releases a long breath, watching the dark sky above. His fingers twitch with anxiety in his pockets. There are a dozen ways that this can go down, but Shiro latches onto the positive ones because Adam did say to come and find him. That has to mean he is willing to talk, right? 

A flood of drunken individuals files out of the front door of Quantum Abyss. Their laughs are loud and obnoxious as they pass by Shiro, a few of the soberer ones giving him wary glances. He gives them half-hearted smiles in hopes of looking less threatening. It doesn’t matter, though. People today look, but don’t care. They’re too caught up in their own lives that they could care less about what the people around them are going through. 

Shiro glances at his phone, checking the time. It will be at least another half-hour of standing out here before Adam leaves. 

He closes his eyes, rubbing the scarred bridge of his nose, shivering from the cold sweat that surely has his shirt sticking to his skin. Seeing Adam doesn’t make him nervous. What has his insides all twisted is the fact that he will have to talk about his history. Memories that haven’t been touched in a year will have to be brought to light, and Shiro doesn’t think he’s ready for that. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to relive that hell. 

Shiro keeps his eyes shut, squeezing them until bursts of white light dance in the darkness behind his eyelids. He rubs the scar over his nose more forcefully, like he could erase the mark from his skin if he scrubbed hard enough. His hands shake, legs quivering, and the brick wall behind him is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. 

_“Shut him up!”_

_Cold iron settles over his nose, squeezing his jaw shut. The leather straps bite into his scalp and pull at his hair. He grinds his teeth. Each breath sharp and noisy through his flared nostrils._

_He’s livid, a raging inferno ready to eat these men alive. A growl rumbles in his chest and that only earns pleased smirks from his tormentors. They have him restrained leaving his muscles aching. Shiro doesn’t stand a chance. Even his sarcasm has been taken from him._

_The terror that threatens to drown him must show somewhere in his defiant gaze because the leader squats before him, his long beard trimmed and shapely. He grins, all white teeth, and mal intent._

_“Do it,” he orders._

_Then he steps aside, letting Shiro’s gaze fall on a familiar uniform. He struggles, that terror now sweeping through him in a cold sweat as the knife caresses dark, tender skin._

_Pleas fall from his lips, the pain of the muzzle tearing into his own flesh a distant feeling. His gaze is wild -- searching for anyone to have mercy. But this is war._

_“No!!”_

_Red, red, redredredredredred._

“Hey, hey, come on, Shirogane, breathe.” 

_But **he’s** not breathing. **He’s** choking. Oh my- **he’s** , those brown eyes are locked on his, begging because blood bubbles past **his** lips in a choked cough.  _

“Breathe, come on, big guy. Deep breath.” 

T _here’s no air. He can taste the blood. Taste **his** blood because Shiro did this. If he had been quicker, better, then **he** wouldn’t be here. The blood on his tongue is **his**. This is his fault. Shiro tries to shrug the hands off of him, but it’s useless. _

“Follow me, Shirogane. Breathe in, hold it, let go.” 

_His fingers dig into the soft material. Which doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t remember-_

“Slow. Just focus on me. I’m right here.” 

_No, he’s...after, he was alone. Who-_

“There you go, better. Keep going. Deep breath in, then let go.” 

_Gentle circles are rubbed into his wrist, soothing, almost hypnotic, he dares say. He focuses on that-- the gentle pressure that he could pull away from if he wanted. It doesn’t restrain him._

“You’re doing great, Shirogane. Keep breathing just like that. Now, open your eyes for me.” 

_NO! NO! He can’t, he can’t because then he has to see. The blood, the way **his** body lies there with his soul gone. Nonononononono. _

“Easy, easy,” the voice soothes, _and god, it’s so hard not to want to let it wrap around him and lull him to safety._

“You’re not there. Think about it -- why’s it cold? What do you smell? Feel? Hear?”

_He knows he shouldn’t listen to the voice, but he can’t find solid ground. This, whoever they are, he needs them before he drowns. His fingers feel numb, but he remembers how sweat rolled down his temple. Taking a deep breath, he should smell the sharp scent of iron, but instead, his senses are filled with the stale smell of beer and something more pleasant like cinnamon and hickory. When he forces himself to listen over the ringing in his ears, he can hear cars, laughter, but…_

Shiro opens his eyes -- slow, almost hesitant. He finds himself crouched on the ground; prosthetic arm clenched around the fabric of his shirt. But he’s not alone. 

Sluggishly, his gaze travels upwards over toned thighs whose knees are pressed against his. There are bare arms --- each hand wrapped around one of his wrists rubbing those soothing circles into the skin, and as his eyes continue up, they land on a bruised face. 

A smirk frames thin lips, the terrible lighting of the bar and streetlight illuminating tawny skin that Shiro knows. “Hey,” he says, those moss green eyes, covered by square-framed glasses, swimming with concern despite the grin. 

Confused, Shiro’s nose scrunches up as his eyebrows draw together. “Adam?” 

“Yeah,” he answers plainly. Worry still draws deep lines into his sharp features. “Are you here with me?” 

He struggles through the molasse that his mind has become. The fight to keep his thoughts straight and not give in to the sheer exhaustion is a feat. Somehow, though, Shiro starts to push through the post-panic. Which happens to be the reason why his cheeks color a deep red and he ducks his head. 

“I’m...sorry you had to deal with that,” he murmurs, shame burning hot on his face. 

“Hey,” Adam says, commanding tone forcing Shiro to meet his gaze. The intensity sobers him, almost takes his breath for a second time tonight. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m just glad I was able to pull you back.” 

Glancing around, Shiro finds the streets empty. Even the throngs of late-night party goers have disappeared, a few stragglers still lingering. 

“How did you find me?” The rasp in his question alerts him to the phantom tightness in his chest. It fades with each moment of clarity but continues to bother the fighter. 

“Somebody came in and said there was someone in the alleyway having a panic attack. I came out to check it out and found you.” Adam’s attention doesn’t waver. He remains resolute, steady like the rock he was for Shiro in that panic. “I’m glad it was me, though. Don’t think anybody else could have gotten through to you.” 

Shiro tries not to grimace, keeping the recent reminder far from his train of thoughts. Allura has dealt with the worst, the ones where she can’t pull him back and has to wait for him to come through on his own, sometimes hours later. 

He clears his throat, trying to hide his embarrassment. The point of this meeting was to get answers from Adam, not have him pull him from a full-fledged panic attack. 

“Thank you,” he says with earnest. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Little by little, Shiro’s awareness of his situation comes to him -- like how his fingers burn from the cold, legs quivering from squatting for so long. He also notices that Adam hasn’t let go of him, still rubbing soothing patterns into his skin. Shiro’s hand remains clutched in his shirt too, and he swallows hard, forcing his fingers to uncurl. An apology sits on his tongue, but he pushes it down. Instead, he tries to smooth out the rumpled gray shirt. 

Adam lets go finally, huffing in amusement as he stops Shiro’s fussing. “Don’t worry about the shirt.” 

Again, embarrassment flares in him, ears burning as he hides behind his white forelock of hair. “Yeah...okay.” 

Freezing cold wind barrels down the alley which makes Shiro shiver, jaw clenching to fight the clattering of teeth. Adam mutters a curse, running his hands up and down his arms. Arms that are completely bare, Shiro now realizes. 

“Adam-what, why don’t you have a coat?” 

He rolls his eyes. “I told you that somebody came in and said that there was an emergency. There wasn’t time to grab one.” 

Another apology bubbles up, guilt pooling in his gut. Adam doesn’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, he stands up, offering a hand. “You want to get a cup of coffee? I know a place down the street open 24/7.” 

Shiro takes the hand, legs stiff and knees cracking. He buries his numb hand into the confines of his pocket and nods. A small smile toys Adam’s lips, green eyes relaxed despite the situation minutes ago. “Cool. I’ll grab my coat. Give me five and I’ll meet you out here.” 

With that, he disappears back into the bar, leaving Shiro a moment to sort his thoughts. This was not how he planned for his night to go, not how he intended on getting Adam to sit down with him. Which is a whole other tangent Shiro tries not to get lost in. 

_Why is he so understanding? Why did he help?_

Shiro didn’t think that Adam was a bad guy, but the way their fight went down had left Shiro with a bad impression. It still does. This whole turn of events, though, has him turned around and left to start from scratch with regards to the other fighter. 

The bar door slams shut, Adam coming around the corner, now properly dressed for the elements. A gray and white hat with one of those pom-poms covers his head paired with a dark brown bomber jacket with white fleece lining. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, tipping his head towards the direction of where the place is, he asks, 

“Ready?” 

Five minutes wasn’t enough time. But that’s the funny thing, there never is enough time. So, Shiro nods. He hunches his shoulders and follows after Adam. 

_Ready as I’ll ever be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH!!!! I loved writing this chapter! If you haven't figured out yet, I am a sucker for angst. I really enjoy bringing these complex emotions to life in my writing and I hope that shows. Shiro's trauma runs deep in the show, and it's never really talked about. I wanted to start to dive into that while also bringing up bits of his past. not to mention, HOW AWESOME ALLURA IS!! SHE IS BEST FRIEND GOALS, PEOPLE!
> 
> ALSO, ADAM IS A SWEETHEART AND IS ALREADY IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN! Ugh, I couldn't resist having Adam there to pull Shiro from the panic. It was too perfect. 
> 
> Be prepared for more angst! The next chapter features a good dose of angst plus our two sweethearts. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I'll see you soon!


	11. A Late Night Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee x Some Hour After Midnight = Vibes
> 
> Shiro + Adam = OTP 
> 
> Adam Making Shiro Blush = GOLD 
> 
> Coffee + Late Night + Listening Ears = Vulnerability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY...I have been trying to get this chapter posted for over a week now! I apologize for the wait! 
> 
> But now it's here! As promised, you will find angst and two sweethearts in the following chapter. I really had a lot of fun writing this and getting to delve a little more into Adam's character. 
> 
> A huge thanks to you all for sticking with this story! Your support means everything and every kudos and comment is just a reminder that people are still here even when it takes forever to get an update. With that said, the following people, thank you extra for your words: Spiccy, Espy_Ninja, slyphantomm, TheGoblinKing111, ImyourCardiganAngel. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Adam said down the street, he should have mentioned that the place they were going was his apartment and not an actual cafe.

Shiro looks up at the brick building, shooting an unamused glance at the Rebel fighter. Adam meets his gaze and shrugs. 

“What? I’ve got coffee 24/7. Plus, do you really want to be out in public after all of that?” 

A frown pulls at his lips. He doesn’t like how Adam knows him so well. If he had gone to a coffee shop, he would have been fine. Just paranoid and constantly looking over his shoulder and flinching at every little sound -- typical for him after a panic attack so severe. It leaves his nerves frayed and senses hyper-aware. 

“Fine,” he mutters before following the slightly taller man. 

The walk through the building and up the stairs remains silent between the two. Shiro doesn’t take the time to examine the building like he typically would. By the time they reach the door to Adam’s apartment, Shiro would have every exit mapped and a plan for each one. A skill he developed in those years of war. Now, he’s too caught up in why Adam brought him here and memories he’d rather forget. 

Adam unlocks his door, stepping into darkness. Shiro hesitates.

Part of his mind reminds him that this guy is dangerous and could be planning something. He knows Matt has a good judge of character, but what if he was wrong? On the other hand, the other part of his brain knows that Adam could have left him out in the cold to deal on his own. Instead, he helped him through that attack, even opened his home to Shiro so that he had a place to warm up and get his head back in order. 

“Leave your shoes at the door, please,” Adam says as lights flicker to life inside the apartment. Shiro crosses the threshold, closing the door behind him and doing as Adam asked. 

He stands in a small room, the apartment studio style. Cream white-colored walls with accents of dark and light gray mixed with black and blue furniture. At first glance, Shiro can’t believe how small it is. The whole apartment could fit in Shiro and Allura’s kitchen and living room. Yet, despite its size, it feels large.

Gray curtains hang at the back of the room, hiding rumpled bedsheets which makes Shiro smile. It’s clear that Adam is organized and meticulous. That or he barely spends time here other than to sleep. Either way, seeing the rest of the pristine room and then noting an unmade bed, it reminds Shiro that this guy is human too. 

“You can leave your coat on the chair if you like,” Adam offers, standing off to his left in the tiny kitchen as he gestures to the barstool behind the counter. 

A fridge, stove, microwave inlet between dark wood cabinets and an island counter with a sink make up the kitchen. Again, nothing special -- a sleek and professional design. Shiro takes a spot at the counter, shrugging off his jacket, and watches as Adam fixes a fresh pot of coffee. He fidgets, shifting in his seat before he clears his throat. 

“Nice place.” 

Adam glances over his shoulder, the overhead lights reflecting off his glasses. “Hmm, yeah, I don’t spend a lot of time here, but it does the job.” 

The bubbling of boiling water and drip, drip sound. Adam grabs two mugs, plain old white, setting them down with a quiet clank. “How do you like your coffee?” 

“Black,” Shiro answers. Adam grimaces and it draws a sudden laugh from Shiro. “What?” 

“You’re disgusting is what. How can you stand the taste?” 

His grin doesn’t falter, the aromatic roasted hazelnut scent filling his senses and easing the remaining tension from his body. 

“Let me guess, you’re the kind of guy whose coffee is more cream and sugar than actual coffee.” 

The pouting look only makes Shiro grin wider, cheeks hurting. Adam narrows his gaze with the hint of his own smile curling the corners of his lips. “And if I am?” 

“Then you’re disgusting.” 

He laughs, shaking his head. “Then I guess we’re both disgusting.” His host turns away to fill up the mugs. Shiro’s smile has yet to fall, and he basks in the easy, almost natural banter. But as quick as that thought crosses his mind, his eyes catch on the dark bruising on Adam’s face. Bruising that Shiro caused. 

The steaming mug of coffee sits before him, his attention now on the gray-veined quartz counter. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

His question turns the atmosphere somber -- the feel-good vibes crushed by the weight of Shiro’s tone. Adam has his coffee half-way to his lips, eyes guarded behind those square wireframes. 

“Why were you outside the bar tonight?” He retorts before taking a sip of his drink. 

A petty side of Shiro wants to argue that he asked first, but he won’t resort to that child-like tactic. There was a reason he came out tonight. He wanted answers, and despite the turn of events, he’s not going home without them. 

“You told me that if I wanted to know what you know, then I should come and find you.” 

Adam crossed his arms over his chest, and Shiro traces over defined forearms and broad shoulders.

Now, that he’s not in a panic-induced haze, he can properly take in the man before him. His hair, a light brown with hints of blonde that resemble sandy beaches on a late afternoon, lay disheveled on his head thanks to the hat he wore. Ruddy cheeks from the cold compliment his bronze complexion. Shiro notes how his features are harsher with the square frames. If he didn’t know the man as a fighter or a bartender, Shiro would guess that the man was some stuck-up business professional. 

His gray shirt and dark wash jeans match the aesthetic of his apartment, a mix that Shiro himself loves, but can’t help but think of the simplistic life that the military beat into him. Adam’s aesthetic tastes mirror that life.  

With a nod, Adam’s defensive stance relaxes as he leans forward against the counter. “Well, what do you want to know?” 

“It’s clear that you know who I am.” Shiro holds those moss green eyes, expression guarded as he asks, “How?” 

“I told you, Shirogane-” 

“Shiro,” he interrupts. “You can call me Shiro.” 

“Like I said, _Shiro,_ it takes one to know one.” 

“What-” 

“I was in the Air Force. Fighter pilot, same as you,” Adam says with an all-knowing grin. 

_Oh._ Shiro racks his memory of basic and then his battalion. He knows for certain they were not in the same platoon. 

“Did we know each other?” 

Adam shakes his head. “No. I knew of you, though. Pretty sure everyone in the military knew of the record-breaking pilot.” 

The grin that crosses Adam’s face only makes Shiro cringe inwardly. He enjoyed pushing the limits and breaking those records -- even liked the recognition that came with it. However, there were people who became jealous, people who began to pry into his life in order to destroy the ‘golden boy’ the military donned him as. His fists ache with the reminder of the hits he delivered behind closed doors in order to shut up those who had gone too far. 

“I admired you. Thought of you as my rival when I first started, even came close to breaking of few of your insane records.” 

“Ah so you were reckless too,” Shiro teases, trying to dispel old emotions and keep the conversation light for as long as possible. 

“A bit,” Adam grins. “So, what happened, Shiro? You were set up to be the best fighter pilot of the generation. Then you left and nobody knew what happened until a couple of years later when all of sudden you popped back up on radar with the rank of Captain and well, that,” he gestures to the prosthetic arm. 

His bionic fingers flex at the attention. He frowns, muttering, “You’re just diving right in.” 

Adam doesn’t comment. 

Shiro plays with his mug of steaming black caffeine. He knows the best way through this conversation is to not think and let his thoughts spill, like ripping off a band-aid. That band-aid, though, exists for a reason because there are things that happened to him that he doesn’t want to remember. 

With a long sigh, Shiro decides to dive in, keeping his attention anywhere other than the fighter across him. 

“My skill set caught the eyes of some higher-ups and I was offered an opportunity to work on an elite task force that was classified. Is still classified,” he explains, giving a pointed look at the curious glint that Adam now wears. “There were a few guys from different U.S. military branches, but we also worked with other elite members from other countries. I can’t say much about what we did or where we were deployed. All I can give you is that we worked closely with intelligence agencies all over the globe.” 

“Got it. Super-secret spy military stuff. No wonder everybody loved you,” Adam says, crossing his arms. Shiro can read between the lines, though, noting how despite those glasses he can see his hunger for answers and under that the hint of wonder. 

It still draws a weak laugh from Shiro. “Yeah, I guess.” He finally drinks his coffee, the bitter liquid still hot but not enough to singe his tongue. 

When he made it back, his Commanding Officers asked if he ever regretted joining them. At the time, he hated them, hated how long it took them, and how in the end it was his whole team who eventually convinced them that he was worth their energy. But he could never regret it because his best friend came out with him. He’ll never regret joining that elite force. Otherwise, he never would have met Allura, the sole reason he has stayed sane and found his way back to humanity. In the end, it was bittersweet, more bitter though like how his coffee tastes at the moment. 

Not wanting to dwell on those thoughts too much, Shiro straightens in his seat. He knew his story was going to come out, but he didn’t come here to be asked questions. 

“You asked your questions,” he starts, “Now, I have one.” 

“Shoot,” Adam says. 

“Why did you help me tonight? You owe me nothing after I beat the crap out of you.” 

His question draws a sigh from the fighter. A hint of regret showing in his features. “Look, Matt told me all about Voltron. As soon as he said your name, I knew exactly who you were. I’ve heard the stories, well rumors actually, of what happened to you. Not just from the military but out here on the streets. You exude control. I wanted to push you to lose it. So, yeah, I do owe you because it was a dick move, but that’s just how I am. I don’t believe what people say unless I get the facts for myself.” 

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “You’re a dick.” He says it with no heat. A simple agreeance that has a cunning smirk twisting those thin lips. 

“I have a soft side too. That’s not why I helped you, though. I helped because I’ve been there too. You’re not the only veteran that came out fucked up.” 

Their eyes meet, a depth of understanding there that many would never understand. No matter the war or the branch, there exists a bond that nothing can match. It’s forged by blood, desperation, tears, and the gentle caress of death that every soldier has felt once. 

His throat tightens with emotion, but his words are resolute and unwavering. “Thank you.” 

Adam nods, choosing a wordless reply because Shiro can see in that gaze that his gratitude is unnecessary. 

They sip their coffees in silence, eyes drawn to the objects around them. Shiro takes the time to really take in the small studio apartment. He can’t help the pang of loneliness that pulses in his chest as his eyes trace over the monotone colors and the pristine nature of each decoration. This place is not home to Adam. Which makes Shiro wonder if he has one in the first place. 

“Can I ask you something?” Adam’s question breaking the steady silence. 

“Sure.” He turns his attention back to Adam, catching the subtle glance towards his prosthetic. His stomach drops and his shoulders tense. 

“What happened in the alleyway, was it related to that?” 

“Yes.” 

A calculating hum and Adam pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Shiro prepares for the inevitable question. He won’t answer, though. At the end of the day, Adam is still a stranger. What happened to him, he won’t share with anybody, especially a stranger. 

“I could share a few tips with you if you would like.” 

Shiro blinks in surprise. Words fail him as he stares in shock. “Wha-really?” 

Confusion has Adam’s nose scrunching and Shiro can’t help thinking that he looks cute like that. “Yeah, as I said, I’ve got a soft side. I thought you were one of those macho guys who thought his shit didn’t stink. Apparently, you’re not. So, yeah, I’d like to help, if you want.” 

A startled laugh escapes Shiro only making Adam confused. “Sorry, I just--well, people’s perception of me always makes me laugh.” 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“Because they’re usually always wrong,” he smirks. 

Adam rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his coffee. It’s a poor excuse to try and hide his amusement. 

“Thank you, though. I, um, I’ll think about it.” 

Shiro watches as broad shoulders rise up in a shrug, an air of nonchalance in the move that reminds him of Lance. 

“Take your time,” he offers before glancing at the clock on the wall, “and speaking of time, it’s late. You want to spend the night?” 

Looking at the clock himself, he realizes that it’s way later than he thought. Exhaustion clings to his mind, fatigue making his limbs heavy. The last thing he wants to do is walk himself home at three in the morning. Still, he barely knows Adam, and after tonight’s events, he wants the comfort and safety of his own quarters. 

But that doesn’t stop Shiro from teasing him. “At least buy me dinner first.” 

His heart jumps in his chest at the way those eyes trace over his physique. It’s been too long since somebody looked at him like that. Too often people’s attention lingers on his prosthetic and the scar over his nose, forgetting that he is more than the trauma he suffered. 

“I was thinking of treating you to breakfast,” Adam grins, a blush blooming over Shiro’s cheeks. 

He stutters, fumbling over his words. “Calm down, Shirogane,” Adam soothes, amusement shining in his eyes. “I’ll take you out like a proper gentleman.” 

The wink makes Shiro look away, desperate to hide the flush that has worked its way down his neck. “I told you to call me, Shiro,” he mutters. 

Adam waves his hand, as though he can physically brush the comment off. “Everybody calls you that.” 

“So?” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be like everybody else to you.” 

For the second time tonight, Shiro can’t form words. He stares, astounded by the bold statement. His skin burns, ears on fire with a blush that has him resembling a tomato. 

Adam can’t stop smiling, a hint of cockiness in the way his smile lights up his harsh features. “Let’s get you an Uber, then we can talk about that dinner.” 

All Shiro can manage is a weak, “Sure.” The amusement, hints of fondness in those moss green eyes have Shiro looking away to pull his own phone free. Anything to get that attention off of him for a moment. 

They get the Uber ready, silence hanging over them, and Shiro hates that it’s not awkward. He doesn’t understand why this man makes him feel so at ease. 

“Why me?” 

Adam’s cleaning their empty coffee mugs, hands covered in soap. “What do you mean?” 

“Why are you interested in me?” 

He chuckles, rinsing the mugs and his hands. “I thought it was pretty clear.” 

“You said you thought I was a stuck-up dick before tonight.” 

“Yeah, but I still thought that you were a hot, stuck-up dick who kicked my ass and was super sexy when you got pissed.” Shiro covers his face, trying to hide how red he gets. 

“But, honestly,” Adam adds, making Shiro drop his hands and meet that intense gaze straight on. “You’re not what I thought. I don’t know what you’ve been through. I’d like to find out, though, and maybe even be someone to help shoulder that hell you carry.” 

His heart races, but he hardens his gaze, challenging the man because anybody can say anything. “What if you can’t handle that?” 

Adam’s focus doesn’t falter. His words ring out in the room, unyielding, “I still want to try.” 

And maybe for now, that can be enough for Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HAPPENING!! OUR BOYS ARE OFFICIAL! ┏(＾0＾)┛┗(＾0＾) ┓
> 
> I hope that this came off realistically! I always imagined Adam being the more forward of the two and I think that once he saw Shiro's heart, there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to be with the guy. I mean who wouldn't?
> 
> This chapter raises more questions than answering, but I promise it's all going to come together. A larger picture is coming together around our beloved fighters, and swear it's a good one :) 
> 
> Yell at me in the comments and tell me what you think of Adam and Shiro's dynamic or what you didn't. Or just yell in general about whatever! Either way, I love all of it <3 
> 
> Oh, yeah, next chapter? Prepare for copious amounts of angst and screaming at your screen. 
> 
> See you soon, my friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking this out! Comment, Kudos, tell me what you think!
> 
> I needed BAMF Voltron so I made them all underground fighters because what's better than a Voltron fight club? Nothing. 
> 
> Enjoy!


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